Stages of Deterioration
by aradian nights
Summary: AU. After Bruce finds Jason Todd, catatonic and traumatized, miraculously alive on the streets of Gotham, Tim, Dick, and Barbara attempt to fix their broken brother.
1. the dirt under your nails

**stages of deterioration**

**{the dirt under your nails}**

"Jason," Black Canary said softly. Her voice was scathing in his ears, and he was tired of listening to her. Why wouldn't she just leave him alone? "I know this experience has been a trial for you, and I won't force you to talk to me. But please, for the sake of the people who love you, don't shut yourself down again."

She didn't understand. No understood— how could they? He didn't understand it either. Maybe that was why he was so confused all the time. Maybe that was why he could feel _nothing_, and yet he felt _everything_. He couldn't feel angry toward Dinah for prying into his business, but he could feel the scratch of his clothes against his skin, the tight, hot fabric of his tee shirt and sweater as it all smoldered against him. He breathed air, but it caught in his throat like it was noxious, and food no longer tasted like food. It turned to ash on his tongue. Water was too thick, too heavy, and it was like swallowing petrol when he forced it down his throat. He wasn't trying to shut himself down. He just couldn't stand the battle his senses were fighting against the world that seemed to have a grudge against him.

He looked up at her, his eyes glassy and distant. He sank back into his chair, and he stared straight into the woman's eyes for a while. A minute, maybe, or two. She never budged from her position, and she did not back off. So, then… he did what he had to. He gave her what she wanted. But the words were not what she desired.

"I wish I stayed dead."

* * *

_Six Months Earlier_

Tim Drake didn't particularly have trouble busying himself. He was a young hero, and a very bright child, and thus he had a lot of things expected of him. The sad thing was, he tended to get his weekend homework done a little too fast, long before it was time to patrol or visit the Team. So Tim was at a bit of a standstill. He could simply peruse the internet, or maybe get his butt into gear and finish that video game Garfield had let him borrow… what, three weeks ago?

No. Tim was keeping himself amused by cleaning. Because he figured it would leave less work for Alfred, and frankly, Dick's old room was full of little treasures that no one would expect. Tim figured anything left behind was free game (Dick wouldn't mind, would he? Tim would ask him whenever he decided to roll around.).

There was a pile of books that had been thrown unceremoniously into the left corner of Dick's bedroom, and it was literally the biggest pile of random crap. Tim had no idea how anyone could avoid it when trying to navigate, because the bed was right there, and he was pretty sure he accidentally snapped the spine of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. How, he could never be sure, but that one mishap had prompted him to try and sort out the arrangement.

_Okay_, Tim thought, _I'll put _The Book Thief _in the modern lit pile, there we go_. Heart of Darkness_, _Les Misérables_… _Looking for Alaska_…? When did Dick find the time to read these?_

He thumbed through _Looking for Alaska_, and found that it had no chapters. Just days, ticking down to… what? Not the end of the book— some huge event… or a death. _Yeah, I bet it's a death. Seems like all of these are just doorstoppers full of depression fuel._

Tim amused himself with the idea that Dick had indeed attempted to read all of these books, but had gotten so upset with the outcomes of all of them that he just flung them all at the wall and never touched them again. Then he realized that there were tabs in some of them. Sticky notes, with passages scrawled in an unfamiliar script, praises or jokes or quotes or…

The books were all sort of worn. The ones that weren't hardcover were the worst for wear, and when Tim checked the inside covers of some of them— _Ender's Game_ and _The Great Gatsby_, for instance— he saw that they were library books. Stolen library books, it seemed like. Did Bruce know that Dick stole books from the library? Wait, why would Dick _steal_ anything? Especially _library books_?

Tim wasn't surprised when Dick walked into the room in the middle of the quest to sort out the collection. There was a strange sort of silence as Tim's surrogate older brother stood in the doorway, staring rather blankly at the scene before him. It wasn't super strange, was it? Tim liked organization— and Dick's room was far from organized. Was it really so strange that he was trying to fix the giant fire hazard in the middle of Dick's old room?

Yeah, it probably was. Tim felt kind of sheepish about it now. He looked up from the stacks of books— some of which were nearing his height as he knelt— and he smiled wanly at the older boy. He held up _The Great Gatsby_, the smoky blue cover weathered to the point of peeling, and the thin pages were a little crinkled and yellowed.

"So, you realize that the late fee for these is probably around the price of your college tuition, right?" Tim joked, setting _Gatsby_ down on top of _Les Mis_. The classics weren't odd to see, and though Tim hadn't read most of them, he figured he would get around to it eventually.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dick said slowly. His eyes scanned the piles, and he moved forward, kneeling beside Tim. He smiled fondly at the literature, but it didn't take Tim long to realize something was off. Panic sparked within him, the startled thought of upsetting Dick almost too much to bear for a moment. He hadn't thought it would hurt him to clean up a little— Tim had just been bored!

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head quickly. "I should have asked before touching your stuff. I can put them back the way I—"

"They're not mine," Dick interrupted. He paused, and he looked down at the books, swiftly beginning to stack them himself. "I mean, I guess they are now— I used to look at them a lot. But… yeah, it's fine, Tim. No worries."

Dick smiled brightly then, and pushed the piles against the wall. The room looked much neater now, but also sort of… hollow. Like it was missing something now that half the floor was clean. Tim only felt ten times worse when he realized _whose_ books these were. He didn't know what to think about them— he hadn't thought. That was the problem. He should have realized when he started reading the little notes that the books had belonged to the former Robin. He should have deduced that.

"I'm so sorry," Tim blurted. Dick shook his head, still smiling. He was sad, though, and Tim knew that it was all his fault. "I just thought… I mean, you never mind when I come in here, but I kept stepping on them, and—"

"Tim," Dick sighed, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's fine! I totally get it. I actually meant to clean these up, like… I don't even know, before I moved out, definitely. I'm just super lazy." He laughed, giving Tim a gentle shove. A gesture to stand, it seemed, because Dick was already up and stretching.

Tim did stand. He stood, and he pressed his lips together, staring at the little library that Jason Todd had somehow assembled and read. Tim didn't want to admit that he was jealous. He loved reading mystery novels, but often he got too busy to think about simply gathering up a load of books to read for the fun of it. Jason… Jason Todd was a ghost. That was the simple truth. He was gone, but his presence could be felt all throughout the manor. There was no escaping it. And though Tim had never known Jason, he felt like… he had. In a weird way. Tim had gathered little tid-bits about the boy from simply standing where he once stood. Jason had been a very bold person, and he often hadn't followed orders (_that was what got him killed_, a voice in his head hissed), and he liked to write on his walls for some reason (gibberish), and apparently he'd loved to read.

Jason was the exact opposite of Tim. But still, there was a desperate admiration that Tim had to feel for the boy who'd been Robin before him. _What did you do to make everyone love you so much, that they can't even say your name now?_

"Did he read all of those?" Tim asked, his voice barely reaching over a whisper. No one liked to talk about Jason. It often ended awkwardly, and with a heavy air surrounding them until someone changed the subject.

Dick shrugged, bending down and scooping _Heart of Darkness_, which was rather thin, and yet filled with seemingly a hundred little sticky tabs. Jason must have analyzed that book to its core. Who took the time to dissect a book meant for AP Senior English when they didn't have to? Tim would. Dick wouldn't. And Jason? Well, the answer was in the huge stack of books that had just been rearranged.

"I think…" Dick always had trouble talking about Jason. He would go into a strange sort of daze, as if he was reminiscing and trying to forget at the same time. "He read a lot of them, but… he kind of would just collect them. For later. He… liked having a queue of books to read, I guess."

"Oh." Tim didn't know what else to say. All he could think was, _wow, that makes sense_. He watched as Dick tossed the very thin book on top of his old bed, and the older boy gave a long yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

"Don't take high school for granted, Tim," Dick said, pouting a little. "College is ten times worse."

Tim rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "Yeah," he said. "I don't doubt it."

"So, are you coming for training tonight, or patrolling? Cassie's going to be there."

"Why are you wiggling your eyebrows?" Tim asked, frowning as Dick smirked. "Stop it, it's creepy."

"Don't tell me you're not the _teeniest_ bit interested." Dick laughed, gesticulating the 'teeny bit' with his thumb and forefinger. "When I was fourteen—"

"Please," Tim said, his voice nearing a scoff. He was glad that the conversation had changed into something more lighthearted, but really… "When you were fourteen you'd already kissed every girl on the team. Maybe even some of the guys, I don't know."

Dick's eyebrows raised, and he barked a laugh of surprise. Tim looked down, a little unsure of his words. Dick was so easy to talk to, sometimes Tim forgot himself, and said things he knew he'd regret instantly. It was sort of a bother.

"I'm not confirming or denying anything," Dick declared, still laughing a little. "But come on. Cassie's your age, and she seems to like talking to you—"

"She likes talking to _you_," Tim said, folding his arms across his chest. "Not me. And I'm not really… sure something like that would work, anyway. It seems like dating within the Team ends badly for everyone."

"Not true."

"Artemis and Wally don't count."

"Ouch," whistled Dick. "I'm going to tell them you said that!"

Tim opened his mouth, quickly hoping to amend his mistake, but Dick merely laughed a little more. It sounded strange, and forced, and Tim felt awful. He shouldn't have touched the dumb books. "Uh…" Tim struggled to get the conversation back on track. "Anyway, I think I'm going to patrol tonight."

Dick shrugged, plopping down at his desk. Tim took that as a sign that he should leave. "Suit yourself. If Cassie mentions anything about you not being there, though, I'm going to start dropping hints to Barbara and M'gann."

"Please don't," Tim murmured. "You really don't get the concept of not interested, do you?"

The only thing he got in response was a chuckle, and the older boy simply went on to open his laptop, tipping his chair back precariously. Tim moved toward the doorway before pausing, and he turned, his back bumping against the doorframe. "Hey, are you staying for dinner?" he asked— just out of curiosity. Though Dick had moved out, sometimes it felt like he spent more time at the manor than in his apartment.

"Well, I can't let you eat alone, can I?" Dick cocked his head back, and he smiled. A real one, this time. And Tim smiled back, warmth and relief rushing through him. He wasn't mad. It was all good.

Right?

* * *

Abyss. Pure, ineffable darkness crushed his mind, and his heart, and his lungs— his _lungs_. It was all so tight, and grotesque, and he felt it all as it knotted all around him, tugging at his mind and soul. It was the calloused hands of death, meticulous and wraithlike, as he was assembled like a doll, piece by piece, muscles and tendons and veins and blood, _stitch, stitch_, with a needle and filament— always swift, and never mistaken— but this was a mistake, and it hurt so much—

He wasn't certain. He wasn't certain of anything. All he knew was the pain, and all he felt was the inexorable, inescapable, incorruptible force that was bathing his bones in long since decomposed tissue. The world was a haze of agony and loss, and there was no filter, no limitations, and he felt it at full throttle as the world seemed to emerge around him, rising up from the darkness and taking him by force. There were fingers clinging to him, inside his bones, and inside his head, and he couldn't scream— he had no control over his tongue. He felt violated, with the ghosts of fingertips reaching within him, digging into his chest, through the new skin and muscle, and sliding against bone, and swimming through the blood. The phantom fingers grasped him, locking and tugging, gingerly at first, but then harsher, more desperately, and it hurt so much he could barely— but he was barely aware— and he _couldn't_— but all of it mattered little in the grand scheme, because the fingers were dragging him _up_, and _up_, and _**up**_.

There was nothing between him and consciousness. He broke the surface of some ethereal lake, ice clinging to his bones and stinging his lungs— he felt nothing but the agonizing pain that piled atop him like a collapsed building, sitting on his chest and lungs, ash and fire and _boom, boom, boom_— and his back arched painfully as he gasped, his body threatening to snap beneath the pressure. He couldn't think clearly, and he certainly couldn't breathe properly. It was all a jumbled mess of maybes and left behinds and long buried emotions.

He screamed. He couldn't think of anything else. The taste of ash clung to his tongue, burnt flesh and the soft _beep, beep, beep_—

—_forehand or backhand? a or b? what hurts more? what hurts more whathurtsmorewhathurtsmore_—

The sensation of something scratching against his skin was overwhelming. He hurt, and he could hear himself screaming, but his breath only blew back into his face. He tried to thrash, to make more noise, but his legs and arms simply slammed against something squishy and soft that only covered something hard as a rock. He couldn't spread his arms, and when he tried to sit up, his forehead smacked into a cushioned slab, forcing him to let another scream rip loose as he collapsed back into his prison bed. It was soft, and it was warm, but it was the farthest thing from comfortable. His fingers brushed against the linen covered sides, and he began to pound his palms against them, the world rattling in response.

—_dizzy and tired and— pain— he'll get tired of it— he'll stop— just a few more blows and I'll be okay, I'll be okay, just gotta hold it all together, and then I'll be okay_—

He stopped thrashing only when he realized he was having trouble breathing. Sure, it hurt to breathe before, but now it felt as if someone was crushing his lungs. The air was too hot, and he was cramped inside such a tiny space, and he couldn't understand what was happening. But instinct kicked in quickly, and he was craning his neck, blindly trying to find a weak spot. His arms screamed in objection as he raised them, his fingertips brushing across the lining of fabric that kept him all cozy and suffocated. He began to tug at it vainly, his chest heaving as his bones bent and bowed and threatened to snap beneath his skin.

—_chest is throbbing and everything is tinged with red and there's a sharp metallic tang on my tongue— shit, am I bleeding internally, or is that just from my busted gums— and I can't speak, just gurgles— where is he? where are they? it's getting so hard to breathe_—

When he realized he could search his body for something that could help him, he went right for the cold thing around his waist. It was the only remotely useful thing he could come up with, and he spent a few precious minutes awkwardly fumbling with the buckle, blindly unlooping it and pulling it closer to his chest. He had to ignore the pain now. He had to. He would turn it off, just so long as it helped him get out of this tiny little box. He'd feel better after. He had to believe that.

He could hear the scratching. The tearing of fabric. He was doing it all so effortlessly, he wasn't sure it was actually him doing the work. He felt as if he'd taken the back seat in his own body, and now someone— some_thing_ else was using a belt buckle to tear away the thick linen, and he felt the wood beneath his fingertips. He didn't stop, though. His arms were burning, screaming in agony, aching and cramped, but he kept digging at the smooth wooden prison, kept at it, because if he stopped, what would become of him?

—_worm food. I'm gonna end up worm food if I don't slip these cuffs soon— stop thinking so loud, stop thinking period, just wait it out_—

The shrill sound of metal grating against wood set his teeth on edge. He wasn't sure what he was doing, or how much of an impact it would make, but it was all he could do. His hands worked away, whittling the wood down to an unrefined mess of gouges and serrations.

—_if he thinks I'm gonna scream_—

He twisted himself painfully, wedging himself against the side of his little box, and he took a minute or two to struggle out of whatever was restricting his arms. He slid it out from behind him, his fingers trembling against the fine cloth.

—_he's gonna be so mad at me for fucking up_—

Taking a deep breath, he strained himself to lean his head up, the skin of his forehead brushing against the shredded linen. He wrapped the weathered suit coat around his head, his mind only vaguely recalling this action as the correct thing to do in this sort of situation. He had no clue. He might have felt scared, maybe, if he hadn't flung all of his emotions back into the abysmal place he'd been torn from.

—_when I go home I'll punch him— or try too— then, then, then apologize— he was right, they both were, and_—

Once the coat was secure around his face, he felt around for the notches he'd made in the wood. Then, he drew his arm back as far as it could go in the small area given to him— and he punched.

—_why can't I feel my legs_—

He did feel the pain. He just couldn't receive it properly, and so he kept going. His fist battered against the coffin, one blow, two blows, three, and his flesh began to tear, he felt it, and blood was running hot down his hands. He couldn't breathe at all through the tightness of the coat around his face, not that there was much air to breathe in the first place, but…

—_my name— my name is_—

The moment his fist busted through the wood was the moment everything seemed to catch up with him. He felt the undying need to scream, and he struggled and twitched as he felt something run against his shirt, pouring hard and fast against his chest. He struck at the hole he made, listening to the slither of dirt, and he beat at it faster, harder, until a crushing pain spiked through his chest. It was all coming in at once, and he couldn't—

_I'm going to die._

And then he tore away the rest of the wood, and he felt the dirt collapsing on his face (if he hadn't covered it, he would have inhaled all of that...), the cataclysm pinning him onto his back. He would not die. That was the simple truth. He refused to lie down and let himself be crushed, not when he'd— he'd worked so hard—

He used all of his strength. Every last bit of it was used to push against the onslaught of dirt, and slither through the jagged hole— his skin and clothing was getting caught, and his lungs were screaming for air— and he clawed at the darkness, his fingers beating against something thick and heavy, and he pushed _up_, and _up_, and _**up**_. His body was so raw and broken already, but the strain felt like hell. He kept going, though. _Up_ and _up_ and _**up**_. He had no other options, and he dug, his arms—hands, especially the hands— throbbed with pain.

Somehow, he found himself grappling at open air. For a moment he thought it was a trick. The universe was beguiling him, trying to suppress him more with its dirt and its tiny boxes. But that was not the case. He reached, his joints all ready to pop from the strenuous task of fighting off the heavy rain of dirt and stone. It had felt like hours, climbing blindly and hopelessly, but it had only been a minute or so at most. And then he pulled himself, his neck meeting bare air, and his shoes still brushing the prison below.

He ripped the suit off his head and gasped, relishing in the cool, clear air as it washed through his lungs and bathed him in a whistling sort of relief, stinging him and slapping him hard enough to knock him right out of his hole. He reached out, still blinded, and he gasped, sucking the clean air through his teeth as he flailed and pulled and tore himself from the earth, his body wriggling free and collapsing.

It was only then that tears burnt his eyes, and his body no longer responded to its brain's call for mobility. So he did the only thing he could do. He let himself scream again, and all he could sense was the taste of dirt and tears, and the overwhelming anguish that draped across him, digging its spindly claws into his chest and _ripping_.

* * *

"I'm still here," Robin said, his eyes cast toward the smoggy sky. The late October night was nipping, and wind whistled and tugged gently at his cape. Batman was always reluctant to leave Robin alone on patrol— it only happened when something really bad was going down, and Batman didn't want Robin to be there. Except Robin knew that he used to allow Robin to go off on his own all the time. Before. Back with Dick, and then…

But things changed. Batman learnt from experience. And Robin never objected. He understood very well that this was not a test of his character. It was just a precaution, and trying to prove himself stronger? That would be a horrible mistake. _Not following orders gets you killed. Jason and Tula are proof of that._

"_Good_," Batman stated through their radio link. "_Stay there. I'll be done with this soon_."

"Alright," Robin said. He kept his disappointment clear out of his voice. It hurt to know that Batman didn't trust him not to make the mistakes that had devastated them previously. But he wasn't dumb enough to walk right into a fight that Batman feared to be too dangerous for him. If Batman thought he wasn't ready, then he probably wasn't. He could deal with it. "Be careful."

He only got a grunt in reply.

Robin sighed after turning off the radio. The night was still young, and there was an incident near the docks. In about five hours, nearly two dozen people had been hospitalized with wounds ranging from broken arms to multiple stab wounds and lacerations. No one had died yet, thankfully, but people were claiming that… well, the rumor was that it was Death itself slashing its way through Gotham. Nineteen people in five hours? That was major.

_It can't be the Joker_, Robin rationalized. _It just can't be. The attacks may be random and erratic, but the Joker is still in Arkham_. Robin found himself checking twice more, his eyes glued to his wrist computer, trying to find some sort of abnormality with the Arkham Asylum security footage. But the Joker was just… there. Bobbing his head, as if he had some weird tune stuck in that psychotic brain of his.

Robin felt uncomfortable watching for very long, so he quickly moved onto something else. He wasn't staking out or anything, so he had no reason to be quiet or patient. He was nervous, and it was becoming more and more apparent. He could usually keep himself very still for long periods of time, stuck in a knot of deduction and plots. He couldn't seclude himself into his mind tonight. He wasn't sure why, but he was undeniably anxious, and so he had to keep himself busy.

Texting Barbara was unprofessional at best. But, hey, the alternative was disobeying Batman. He'd take the chance.

_Are you in class?_

Even if she was, it didn't matter. Barbara texted him during class all the time, whether he wanted to talk to her or not.

She answered about a minute later.

_Yes_

_This class reminds me why I never took Religion classes in high school_

_the preachiness is getting to my head and i keep wanting to bring up how science has proved all of this wrong and stuff but i can't because it'll affect my grade and gdi i blame wally for most of my skepticism_

_why am i taking this class again_

Robin smiled, and he sat down at the edge of the building he was stationed on, swinging his legs out into the air.

_Biblical Themes can't be that bad. Even if you don't really believe it, it's all pretty interesting and informative._ He knew Barbara wasn't an atheist— but she didn't really believe in much either. Religion wasn't a topic that was brought up often, because none of them really knew what to believe in. They tried to not think about it.

_It's okay_

_Just boring and weird I guess_

_Please don't take me as an example of how to handle college_

_It's just this class I swear_

The thing was, Barbara was handling college a lot better than Dick, so Robin was just getting mixed signals all over. And she was taking at least a five more classes than Dick. Robin didn't know how she remained so calm with all the work she had. He really admired her for being able to stick it out, on top of hero duties and a day job.

They talked back and forth for a little while. Robin wasn't worried about Batman finding out and getting angry, because Nightwing did this with Barbara constantly. On _stakeouts_. It was because Barbara had a lot of night classes, and sometimes they would go for weeks on end only seeing her when she was Batgirl. It was a downer, really, because Tim liked talking to Barbara.

When the radio in his ear began to buzz rapidly, Robin quickly cut the conversation short. She'd understand, and plus, he was making her miss a lecture. That was wrong of him. He quickly flicked his radio back on, dismissing the hologram. Maybe it was over now. Or maybe Batman needed back up.

"I'm here," he said, rising to his feet. The wind nearly knocked him backwards as it howled and spat, twisting his cape around his legs.

"_Robin_." Batman's voice was hoarse. Lower and thicker than usual, and it startled Robin to the point where he nearly lost his footing on the building ledge. He quickly flipped himself onto his hands, bouncing easily back toward the safety of the building. "_Get the car and track my location_."

"The…?" He blinked, his words only barely registering. He was trusting him to drive the Batmobile. That was… scary. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

He was already springing from the building by the time he heard Batman's cold reply. "_Irrelevant_." In Batman language, that meant 'no time to answer, so hurry up and follow orders'. Robin felt a little jittered by it, but he focused himself forward, and moved swiftly. Batman was injured. That had to be it, he was hurt, but he didn't want to say anything.

Robin couldn't remember ever moving as fast as he was moving now. He was barely registering anything but his objective, and nearing it. He would get to Batman, and he'd give him the help he needed. That was all that mattered, and it was all he had to do. It was simple, and easy, and yet he felt like he was already out of time, and it was still so early— but Robin knew that he could do it. Because he had to.

When he reached the Batmobile, he nearly fell from his determination. He knew how to drive it, but… he never had a reason to before now. _Don't think about it_, he told himself, slipping into the front seat. His cape pooled around him, and his fingers hovered over the wheel, and the controls. _Nightwing wouldn't think about it. Just go. Just drive!_

He quickly tapped into Batman's signal to the GPS, and he took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the holoscreen as the dot glowed faintly in the darkness. Then he drove. He let himself rely on instinct, and he directed the Batmobile toward Batman, and he tried not to think too much about what could possibly await him. There was a possibility that he was too late, and that urged Robin forward faster, the knowledge that Batman was counting on him hanging over his head heavily, like a brick about to drop.

He took it as easily as he could. He did pump up the speed quite a bit, but he was very careful. He weaved between traffic, his body rigid as he tried to calm himself. He had to become steel as a preparation. He would be no help otherwise. Robin was very delicate with the controls, hoping that he didn't mess anything up too badly.

Whatever had happened, it hadn't been enough to trigger the police. Yet. There was no major destruction to the buildings around the docks, which gave Robin a little bit of a relief as he accelerated the Batmobile. Then, finally, he met his destination, and he flung himself from the car, nearly forgetting to put it in park. His fingers were already against the latch that held his bo staff to his back, and he hunched forward, listening closely for any sign of danger. To his surprise, he heard a muffled… sobbing.

He spun around, his head snapping up to meet the gaze of his mentor as the Batman stood, his jaw squared, and his lips white and thin. Robin opened his mouth to ask, but then he saw the small form that was clutched close to his chest, half hidden by the wisp of a black cape. Robin stared, his mouth opening for a moment, before he realized. He quickly opened the back door of the Batmobile, not saying a word. He didn't need to know now. There was a kid in trouble, and that was all he needed to prompt him.

"Robin," Batman said. Robin looked up, blinking as he gripped the door. He could see the blood, but he had no words. The kid needed to be treated by a doctor, and fast.

"I can call Nightwing and Batgirl to get a trace on our Unknown," Robin said, his fingers sliding against his wrist. "We can meet them after the civilian is stabilized and safe."

Batman was shaking. There was nothing more terrifying than that. Had Robin done something wrong? The way the man's broad shoulders shuddered, it had to be anger that shook him. Robin felt himself take a step back on reflex, his back bumping against the Batmobile, and he heard the soft muttering of the kid— the boy— as Batman took a few steps forward.

"Bruce…" whispered the boy, who was black and red all over. Dirt and blood marred his features, smudged and smeared across his youthful face. "Bruce…"

Robin could only stare. He was confused, not certain of what he was hearing, and then the boy's eyes snapped open. They were salient, like glassy spheres of ice glowing beneath the red that stained his cheeks and eyelids and lips. He opened his mouth, and a soft scream escaped it, and the boy twitched and thrashed and writhed beneath the grasp of the Dark Knight, a name still on his tongue as he lost control.

_This isn't possible_, Robin thought, recognition stinging his mind as Batman held onto the boy tighter, leaning forward to murmur something in his ear. Robin knew Jason Todd only from pictures and holograms. But even so, the former Robin had eyes one could scarcely forget. And they were open. They were staring straight at Robin, and there was nothing in them but pain and confusion and fear. _You're dead. You can't defy the only truth of humanity— you're human, and death is finite. Or at least, it's supposed to be._

Robin acted quickly, and without command. He let his hand fly to his utility belt, and he dug through a pouch, withdrawing a small syringe. It wasn't very hard to catch one of the boy's— Jason's?— arms. The trouble was that he was fighting very hard, and he was screaming louder with every moment that passed. But Robin was quick, and he was precise, and the boy could barely register the short prick of a needle as the sedative was pumped into him.

Batman said nothing as to whether or not he was grateful for this action. It didn't seem to matter to him. He merely jerked his head toward the Batmobile, and Robin jumped up, grasping the top of the doorframe and swinging himself inside the car. He reached out, waiting for the boy— the maybe Jason Todd— to stop squirming and screaming, and allow the sedative to take its course.

After a minute or so more of agonized screams, everything sort of faded off, and Robin then had a head in his lap. They were moving before Robin could register the reality of it, and the boy blinked up dazedly at the ceiling. Robin spent a little bit of time trying to scrub some of the dirt and blood from his face. It only made him realize that most of the mess had not come from his wounds.

"He's our Unknown," Robin said softly. From the front seat, there was no reply. Robin knew it to be true though. "This… this is…"

"Yes."

There was no emotion in Batman's voice. There was nothing. He sounded less human than a robot. In fact, Red Tornado's voice was sounding particularly human in comparison. Robin frowned, and he looked down at the— at _Jason_. He was hurt badly, but… there was blood everywhere. Dried blood, warm blood, blood smeared in thick, harsh strokes. He looked back, his eyes still gleaming with fear and pain, but he was considerably calmer. If it wasn't for the way he blinked when he completely succumbed to the sedative, and the rise and fall of his bloody chest, Robin would think the boy was dead. Again.

"It could be a trick," Robin murmured, trying to rationalize this. "This is… I mean, how is this possible? How is he alive? Is it a trick?"

There was silence. Robin was still staring at Jason's face, tentatively wiping away the blood and dirt that caked his skin, revealing sallow hues and thin scrapes. The boy's lips were trembling as he sucked shallow breaths between his teeth. His pale blue eyes were flickering blindly, but sometimes they would land on Robin's face, and they'd be fixed there for a while. It was unnerving.

"Batman?"

"I don't know," said the Dark Knight, his voice quiet. Robin didn't know what question he was answering. So he had to assume it was all of them.

"But… he's real." Robin swallowed hard, and he leaned his head back, feeling sort of dizzy and wonderstruck. "He's actually… he's alive. We have to tell Nightwing!"

"No."

That sent a chill striking through Robin's chest. Not tell Nightwing? When it was so clear that Jason Todd was and always will be Dick Grayson's biggest regret, and most painful scar? How could Batman be so cruel? Robin's fingers tightened around Jason's crimson and brown stained shirt, and the boy's voice rattled softly as he began to murmur under his breath. _Oh. He wants to make sure it's really him. Giving Nightwing false hope is worse than… anything. But still…_

Robin bit his lip. He quickly summoned his wrist computer, and began to type frantically, the light stinging his eyes as he tried not to think about what was next for them, what this all meant. He knew this wasn't possible. He was scared of it. He was terrified of the boy laying on him, bloody and responsible for the injuries of… so many innocent people… and for what?

Still, he couldn't do nothing. And Batman had said nothing about contacting Batgirl.

_Can you check out the cemetery for me?_

Her reply came without a hitch.

_Yes_

_Is there any particular reason why?_

His fingers were trembling against the little holographic keys. It was strange. All Robin could feel was the eyes of the sedated boy boring into his neck, scrutinizing his every movement, every breath.

_Just want to test a theory. You'll know it when you see it._

The rest of the ride went on in an uncomfortable silence. Batman would say nothing about how he had come to find the dead boy. Robin could do nothing to help. Jason wouldn't be sedated for long, and Robin was nervous about what the boy would do when he woke up from the calm. Would he attack Robin? Most likely. _I wouldn't be able to hurt him_, Robin thought. _If we fought, I'd end up holding back. I can't fight someone like him._

When they arrived at the cave, Batman had ushered Tim out almost immediately after Alfred appeared, and began working at cutting away the soiled clothing that clung to Jason's blood soaked chest. Tim couldn't find it in him to even try objecting to it. There was no point. He didn't want to watch. There was something inexplicably haunting about looking into Jason's eyes, and it got to the point where Tim could feel them on him still. Even though there were many walls and floors between them.

Tim ended up trying to pass the time by going back up to Dick's room and grabbing one of the books that he'd arranged earlier in the day. _Heart of Darkness_ ended up being seventy three pages of long-winded prose and a strange and sort of icky insight into human psyche. A lot of Jason's notes on the book were jotted down words that he likely went to look up later— and Tim didn't really blame him. Other notes were short little jokes about the author's sanity, or the narrator's naivety.

After finishing the book, Tim felt really, really awful. He had no idea what was happening in the cave, and he was too scared to check for himself. What if Jason had died again? What if it had all turned out to be an illusion? This was all so impossible, and Tim had no idea how to handle it. He hadn't been trained to deal with this sort of situation. Death, yes! Resurrection? Not a chance.

In the end, Tim disobeyed orders.

"Robin?" Nightwing didn't sound very surprised. His face glowed on the computer screen, and Tim adjusted his sunglasses nervously. "You're done with patrol early."

"You need to come home," Tim blurted. He could see M'gann behind Nightwing, and she looked up, her eyes moving to the screen. She looked startled. "It's urgent. It's so, so, so urgent, and Batman told me not to— I'm really sorry, I know I shouldn't go against orders, but I think you deserve to know."

Nightwing was silent for a few moments. His lips parted, and then they snapped closed, and he looked hardened. It scared Tim how much he looked like Batman when he did this. "Is everything alright? Tell me the damage now, before I get there."

"I—" Was it a good thing or bad thing that Jason Todd was miraculously alive again? What was the damage of this miracle? Everything good always came with something bad. "I don't know. I'm not allowed to see. It's… I can't say, I'm sorry."

Nightwing's eyes narrowed, the whites of his mask turning to slits. Then he nodded, somehow understanding Tim through all of his confusion. "I see," he said. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Tim watched him, and he pitied his older brother. He wouldn't handle this well. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Okay," Tim murmured. He looked down, and he saw that his hands were shaking. He tried to stop it by running his fingers through his hair, but it only sent his entire body jittery. "Okay…"

"Robin…" Nightwing looked at him with eyes wide with empathy, and he shook his head. "Stay whelmed. I'm going to be there in like, five minutes, alright? It'll be fine."

Tim could only bob his head and pray that Nightwing was correct.

True to his word, Dick arrived only a few minutes later. And Tim could only sit and peer into the Batcave cautiously, too afraid to face Bruce or Dick. They'd been arguing when Tim had ventured down to the cave. When Dick saw him, he looked relieved, and he left Bruce's side to pull him fully into the cave, babbling about thinking someone had died, and chastising him for not being clearer on the matter. It was obvious he didn't know yet.

Tim was too ashamed of himself to meet Bruce's eye. Dick had him by the shoulder, still talking up a storm, but somehow holding a defensive position over Tim, as if he meant to shield him from Bruce's wrath. It wouldn't work.

"I thought I explicitly stated to wait," Bruce said. His eyes were tired, and his voice was too throaty and loose. He didn't have the energy or the willpower to put on a show to intimidate Tim. There was no need. This scared Tim a hell of a lot more.

He took a deep breath. He could stand up to Bruce. He _could_. This had been his decision, and he'd had his own reasons for disobeying orders. "You told me not to _tell_ him," Tim replied, looking up at Bruce with wide eyes. "And I didn't. But I think you should. This isn't the kind of thing you can keep locked up for a few days, or a week, or a month. Dick deserves to know now."

Dick looked at him, his eyes widening in surprise. And then he smiled gratefully, squeezing Tim's shoulder gently. "I agree," Dick said. "I want to know now, whatever it is. If it has Tim this upset, then I have to know. You did say no one died, right?"

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and he shook his head mutely. Tim looked around the cave, and saw that Jason was nowhere in sight. It was likely Alfred was patching him up in another room. Bruce gave Dick a level glare, which prompted Dick to tear his mask away, just so they would be on the same field of glowering. Tim inwardly cheered when Bruce relented. Outwardly, he managed nothing but a very small smile.

"Fine," he said, spinning around and pressing a button on his console. "Alfred, bring him in."

"Sir?" Alfred's voice sounded startled, and a bit unsure. "He's only just calmed. Are you certain—?"

"Yes."

Alfred paused, and when he replied, Tim could hear the strain in his voice. "Very well. We'll be there in a moment, Master Bruce."

It was that moment that Barbara decided to text him again. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen, flushing at the look Bruce gave him. It was pertinent, though, so he couldn't be blamed, right? He read Batgirl's message, and he felt a little twinge of satisfaction. Well, it answered the question of where Jason had come from. Or, really, confirmed it.

When Alfred appeared, he was beckoning a very small boy forward. Jason was all clean now, his skin raw and sort of peachy in color instead of sickly sallow, and his hair was washed and combed, and he wore a pair of flannel pajamas. He was barefoot, and staring at the ground, as if he was focusing on the movements of his feet.

Dick didn't react at first. He simply stared, blinking once, twice, thrice. Then Jason rose his head at Alfred's gentle prompting, and Dick took a few steps back, stumbling and catching himself. His face had gone very pale, and his eyes were so wide and terrified, that Tim felt like he'd under reacted upon meeting the dead boy.

"I-is this—" Dick choked on his words, but he could not tear his eyes from Jason's face. The boy merely stood, his eyes blankly staring back. "Is this some sort of joke…?"

Of course Dick knew it wasn't. It was a dumb question. Bruce didn't take offense to it, though. He simply closed his eyes, and shook his head. "No," Bruce said quietly. "He's real, Dick."

There were a few precious, heart-stopping moments where Dick's expression changed completely. He went from terrified, to anguished, to utterly ecstatic. He looked at Jason, and something glowed within his dark blue eyes, something Tim hadn't seen in… a very, very long time. Perhaps he'd never seen it before now. After all, Tim had arrived after the death of Jason Todd. Dick Grayson was broken, but it was only apparent when you saw him truly happy. There was a very large difference between the act Dick pulled to get people to not worry, and the true and pure elation that gleamed in his eyes, and stretched with his disbelieving smile, and rung through the cave with the soft, almost tearful laughter that slipped from his lips.

Dick didn't waste any time in dropping before Jason, and searching the dead boy's face for a few moments. "This is really… this is really you, Jay," he breathed, his body quivering as he reached out, his fingers brushing Jason's nose. Dick pulled back immediately, jolting as if he'd burnt himself on Jason's skin. Then he let out a shaky, shocked laugh, and he flung his arms around the boy, pulling him close and burying his face in his shoulder.

Tim could only watch. He hadn't known Jason. He was intruding.

He turned to Bruce, and straightened up, allowing himself to feel some satisfaction for doing the right thing in telling Dick. "According to Barbara, Jason's grave caved in. If there were any doubts before…"

"They're gone." Bruce nodded curtly. "This is Jason Todd."

It was. But when Tim looked one last time at the dead boy, he saw that he had not made a single move since Dick had hugged him. In fact, he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was being hugged. He only stared ahead, his icy blue eyes glossy and dazed.

_Miracles come with a price_, Tim thought sadly. _This might be Jason Todd's body, but where's Jason Todd's mind?_

* * *

There was nothing. A week after Jason Todd's miraculous revival, and he was just as dazed and unresponsive as that first night. Dick didn't really seem to care, or at the very least he hid his worry well. Bruce avoided Jason like the plague when he was home, and when there was an encounter, there was a very silent, very hollow staring match. Tim didn't know what Bruce thought he would accomplish by doing this, but it was about as effective in pulling Jason out of his stupor as bonking the boy on the head with a metal baseball bat. If anything, it made Jason worse.

Barbara had acted similarly to Dick, only a bit more subdued. She didn't hug him, but she did kneel before him and stare for a few minutes. Tim had left after she began to cry, not wishing to intrude anymore than he had already. It was strange, feeling like a stranger in his home. Tim found himself becoming more and more reclusive, rarely speaking in school unless he was spoken to, and only seeing the Team when he was sent on a mission. Tim had always been an introvert, but he knew he was getting ridiculous at this point. The thing was, no one seemed to notice. So he didn't need to try and integrate himself more into society, right? Right?

One week, and everything that seemed normal was disrupted. Dick still slept at his apartment, but he'd skipped all of his classes for five days, and he spent the majority of his time at the manor trying to get some sort of reaction out of Jason. It seemed to Tim that Dick was wasting his breath. Jason did nothing all day but sit for hours staring at a wall, or wander about the manor aimlessly, or scare Tim half to death whenever he slipped Dick's eye by appearing behind him rather suddenly and silently.

Bruce had informed the Justice League, but they were the only ones who knew. The world was oblivious to the reappearance of Jason Todd, and it went on without budging in response. If nature had been warped and unraveled to bring back the former Robin, it did it in secret. No one knew. No one cared. And Tim found that he didn't care either.

It was only when Tim was awoken in the night to strangled screams that he began to realize how awful he was being. How awful they were all being. No one was helping Jason get better— they were only making his condition worse. And one week later, it became clear that he couldn't survive like this.

Tim got to him first. He was the closest, and the moment he'd heard the screams he'd torn his blanket away, stumbling in the darkness and rushing into the hall, his head snapping back and forth confusedly. The screams were rattling off the walls, shattering the quiet night like bullets against glass. Tim sped to Jason's door, but he found that it was open, and the room was in shambles— pictures had been torn from the walls, crumpled and ripped, and there were albums scattered across the floor, cracked cases and broken picture frames and snapped pencils and destroyed notebooks. Tim could feel panic bubbling inside his chest, and he gripped the doorframe, his eyes growing wide and his face growing white in absolute terror.

He spun around, his bare feet clapping against the floor, and he began flinging open doors. "Jason?" he called, his voice cracking in fear. "Jason!"

The screams only got louder, and Tim finally pinpointed where he was. He sprinted through the halls, twisting and stopping before the bathroom door, his fingers grasping the doorknob. The door didn't budge, but there was light and steam streaming through the cracks, and the screams were so loud now, they were beginning to hurt Tim's head. He rattled the doorknob, bewildered at the idea that the boy had managed to lock the door.

"Jason! Open the door!" Tim pounded his fist against the wood, and the screams only got louder, more erratic, and every so often a sob would break into the horrible line of shrieks. "Jason! I know you can hear me, please! Please, open the door!"

It went on. Tim inhaled sharply though his nose, and he gave the doorknob one last jostle before taking a step back. He prayed Jason wasn't anywhere near the door's path, and he took a deep breath, twisting and kicking the door with just enough strength to force it in on itself. The door slammed back against a wall, and Tim staggered into the misty bathroom. His eyes flashed fast between the shattered, foggy mirror, the puddles of water from the shower, which was running hot and steaming, and the creamy white walls, which were smeared with stains of red. Tim reached forward, his fingers brushing against the still wet blood, and he withdrew them, his stomach twisting in horror.

"Jason…?" Tim swallowed a bit of bile that had crept up his throat. He hopped carefully between the puddles of water, fighting through the steam, and narrowly avoiding slipping. He reached the bathtub, and through the translucent glass he could see the faint shape of Jason's shaking form. Tim shook his head, pushing away his fear, and he slid the glass door to the side.

Jason was curled up beneath the berating water that streamed from the showerhead. He was still wearing his pajamas, and his dark hair was sticking to his ruddy face and neck as he leaned into the scalding cascade and screamed. If he was crying, the water masked it. But it was also burning his skin, turning his neck and face an angry red. Tim reached through the water, choking on his own cries as it scalded his hands and arms, and he flicked the faucet off. The water abruptly sputtered to nothing, and the screams were suddenly _deafening_. Tim had heard them from his room, in his sleep, between how many walls and doors, and the din of running water? Did the boy even know how to breathe?

"It's okay!" Tim gasped, his hands hovering over Jason's quaking shoulders. He was clutching his hands to his chest and rocking back and forth, his face contorted in pain. "Jason, stop, it's okay, look!" Tim took Jason's hands, and he felt a little sick when he saw that were was glass imbedded into his palms, and blood was pooling and glistening, runny and thin as it mixed with the water in the tub. "Oh, god… Jason…"

He wouldn't stop screaming. Tim was getting so panicked, he couldn't think properly. How did you stop this sort of thing? Tim tried to pull Jason out of the tub, but the boy merely pushed and screamed louder, slapping at Tim with bloody hands. Tim sighed, wincing as he forced himself to climb into the tub beside him, water sloshing and burning at his bare feet and soaking through his sweatpants. There was so much water in the tub— pink tinted water, almost to halfway full. _Oh, god, was he trying to drown himself?_

"Alfred!" he shouted, pinning Jason's arms to his side and attempting to hush him. Dick would know what to do. Dick knew everything about Jason. He knew exactly how to keep him quiet, didn't he? _Pretend he's a child_, Tim thought frantically. _Hug him! Dick would hug him, so I should hug him_. Tim breathed in, choking on all the steam, and he pulled the thrashing boy to his chest. "Jason, please… it's okay now, you can stop screaming."

Jason only began to quiet down when Tim began to rub his head slowly, uncertainly pushing the boy's slick black hair away from his face. He was still sort of fighting Tim off, but his screams were breaking apart, more sobs falling through, and by the time Alfred arrived in the doorway, Jason was clinging to Tim's shirt and only shrieking a little bit between sobs. Tim looked at Alfred, his eyes pleading, and the old butler quickly moved to help remove the boy from the bathtub. If he was disturbed by the blood or the screams, he didn't show it. He looked at Tim though, and there was a strange gleam of gratitude there.

"Can you call Dick?" Tim croaked, too scared to pry Jason's fingers from his chest. He'd sort of curled into himself while still holding onto Tim, as if he didn't really want to be holding onto him, but he couldn't bear to let go. "I… I don't know what happened to him. What do we do? Where's Bruce?"

"Master Bruce is currently out." Alfred's lips twisted into a grimace, and Tim knew that he wasn't happy with the way Bruce was acting either. "But, yes, contacting Master Dick would be… the best option at this point. Will you help me take Master Jason to the kitchen?"

It wasn't like Tim had much of a choice. He felt incredibly uncomfortable having Jason hold onto him like a lifeline, but only because he felt like, if Jason had been aware of what he was doing, he'd be mortified. Tim wasn't really an affectionate person, and he liked having his own space. That often clashed with Dick's need to touch everything and everyone. Tim felt like Jason would be somewhere between there in the comfort spectrum.

They left puddles everywhere they went. Jason eventually went silent, and he returned to his usual vacant behavior. Only now, whenever Tim wandered away from him, his head would snap to face him, and his eyes would go wide and then narrow. It made Tim a little uncomfortable at first, until he realized that _it was progress_.

Dick came and made everything better. It amazed Tim how easily he could manage Jason's condition, and how he got little responses from the not-dead boy. When Dick hugged Jason, the boy leaned into it. When Tim had hugged him, he'd fought like hell before finally giving in, and that was probably out of exhaustion and terror more than anything else. Dick's soothing words elicited flickers of emotion in Jason's hollow gaze, and after a little while, they'd lulled him to sleep.

"What…" Tim's voice was wobbly, and thin. "Why did this happen? He… destroyed everything in his room, and then…"

"I don't know." Dick looked solemn, and he was holding Jason's tiny-looking body very close. He smiled, though, and he stared at Tim with a grateful gaze. "Thank you. Alfred said you were the one who calmed him down, and that's… pretty amazing. Jason never was one to give up fighting easily."

"I… I just held him, that's all." Tim could feel his neck and cheeks flushing in embarrassment. "I was just doing what I thought you would do."

Dick looked at him, his deep blue eyes sad and surprised and dim. _He looks so old…_

Three days later, Dick moved back into the manor. After that, whenever Jason would wander at night, he always ended up at Dick's door with a nightmare and a silent plea.

* * *

"'_I guess humans like to watch a little destruction_,'" Tim read aloud, a few weeks later, and no closer to a breakthrough. Jason was still a well kept secret. The only people who knew aside from the League were Wally and Artemis, and that was only because Dick told them everything. "'_Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate_.'"

This is how Tim spent his evenings nowadays. It became so regular, in fact, that Jason began picking out the books he wanted Tim to read. It wasn't anything huge, like actually speaking, but it was a nice sense of consciousness. There was someone behind the lost gaze and blank expression. Jason Todd was alive. Maybe.

Jason was staring straight ahead, his arms tucked into his chest, and if he was listening, he gave no inkling of it. Tim liked to think he was, though. Otherwise he'd feel weird talking to himself. Tim leaned over, sticking the book under Jason's nose and pointing to one of the sticky notes tagged on the side of the page.

"Do you remember writing this?" Tim asked, vainly hoping he would show some physical response. "It says, '_It's funny how Death gets humans better than humans get humans_.' See, you drew an arrow to that passage—"

"Tim."

He jumped, and he twisted his body around to look at the doorway to the foyer. He snapped the book shut and set it on the coffee table, standing to face Bruce. Tim was surprised to see him. He was still trying to avoid Jason— Tim had figured out that he was just trying to find out how he'd be resurrected, just in case it wasn't permanent. He was still being an ass, though.

"He likes it when people read to him," Tim said, trying to keep his accusation out of his tone. It didn't really work. "He picks out the book and everything."

"That's…" Bruce looked somber, and it made Tim nervous. "An improvement."

"I think he just needs time to… remember how to live," Tim said slowly. He glanced at Jason, who was still sitting stolidly.

"Perhaps I may be of help, then," a gravelly voice said, gently. Tim blinked in surprise as Bruce stepped aside, and J'onn entered the room. He'd taken his human appearance, wearing civilian clothes and a mild expression. Tim only felt a little twinge of worry for Jason, before he batted it off. J'onn knew what he was doing. He wouldn't hurt Jason.

"Are you going to fix him?" Tim asked, navigating around the couch as J'onn moved to Jason's side, peering at the catatonic boy.

"If it is possible," said J'onn, frowning as he stood directly in front of Jason, lifting his chin up gingerly. "The human mind is very… complex. I have never encountered one that has experienced true death, and so… I am unsure of the damage that has been done."

"But you will be able to tell if he's still in there," Bruce said. Tim winced at his tone. He wanted to tell Bruce that he _was_, that Jason really was getting better but— how could he? He didn't know that for sure.

"Yes." J'onn nodded. "That is a certainty. I must ask, though… if there is I chance I can pull Jason out… would you allow me to?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Tim asked, confused. If there was a chance, why wouldn't he take it? Then Jason would be okay again, and Bruce would stop trying to distance himself, like he would break him or something.

J'onn sighed, closing his eyes. "The process would be… tricky. Yes, tricky, and dangerous. I could very easily only trigger something worse. Something deadly."

"Do what is safest for Jason," Bruce said flatly. J'onn looked up at him, and he nodded in resignation, his fingers drifting to Jason's temples. Tim stared for a moment, and he spun to face Bruce, something striking him.

"Dick should be here," he said. Bruce's expression remained unchanged. "He's the only one who Jason likes having around when he gets scared."

"He's on a mission."

And then there was nothing else Tim could do to help. Having Jason around was like stepping up and becoming an older brother (even though Jason was technically older— kind of), but it was alarming how little Tim could do for him. So Tim did nothing but watch beside Bruce as J'onn worked, eyes glowing, and minutes ticked past. Tim found himself wondering what he would do if they really could bring Jason's mind back. Would Jason want to take Robin back? Tim would let him have it. He could find a new identity, like Dick did. It made him sad to think about though.

When J'onn pulled away from Jason, both Bruce and Tim were at their sides, staring intently down at them. J'onn sat for a few moments, pensively cupping his chin. Jason looked very much the same, which made Tim frown.

"It didn't work," he stated quietly. He could feel Bruce stiffen a little beside him. J'onn merely shook his head.

"His mind…" J'onn sucked in a breath, his eyes squeezed closed. "It is a… a _labyrinth_. He has built himself an entire world to lock away all of the… pain, and the memories— I saw a few of them, when I was searching for him. They were unpleasant."

"Well, he died," Tim said briskly. "It really doesn't get more unpleasant than that."

J'onn shook his head again, his head bowed. "No, I did not see his death. He would not allow me to see that, but… I saw other things. Before you found him, he was… I cannot explain it. I do not know what to call it. But it is unpleasant, and Jason has locked it away in the catacombs of his mind."

Tim forced himself to not let his mind wander in response to this information. "You said he wouldn't let you see his death?" Tim asked, looking up at Bruce eagerly. He looked interested too, but also troubled by whatever J'onn was implicating. "Then that means that he's still in there, right? Right!"

J'onn managed to smile at this. "Yes, that's right." He nodded, rising to his feet. "I could sense him within the labyrinth, as he could sense me. He did not seem to want me to intrude, but… he did allow me to. The labyrinth is unstable at this point, and I do believe— with some time, and enough prodding— that it will collapse, and Jason will be free."

Tim smiled brightly, excited at the idea of fixing the not-dead boy— until he realized. "But…" His eyes widened, and he looked down at Jason's quiet body. "He built those walls to protect himself from the bad memories, right? If they all fall…"

"It will overwhelm him," Bruce growled. Tim looked to J'onn desperately. But the Martian could only shake his head, a sign that he didn't know.

Tim was the one who ended up escorting J'onn out. He paused at the door for the moment, smiling contentedly to himself, as Bruce sat down beside Jason and pulled the book into his lap.

* * *

Thanksgiving came and went, and Jason was only making meager progress. Barbara and Dick were trying to teach Jason how to write again, but the most they got was little doodles of bread and stars and sometimes bold scripted R's. Sometimes they would take turns reading to him, when they were all together (it happened a lot more often than it used to). Sometimes Dick and Barbara would just talk to him, hoping to trigger his memory by bringing up the old missions they'd gone on, and all the times they'd studied on patrol (Batman had let them do that?).

Jason still had night terrors. Sometimes Tim would just lay in bed, listening to the screams, and wondering if he'd ever get better. How did one get better after dying? That wasn't something that you could just get over. Dick was the only one who could calm Jason down, really, and Tim wondered if Jason ever slept in his own room. He probably just couldn't handle being alone.

One night, when the crying didn't cease, Tim found himself crawling out of bed, his ears ringing from exhaustion. The night was chilly, and the nip of the air outside was seeping through the old walls of the manor. Tim rubbed his bare arms, blinking into the darkness, and he followed the walls to the soft, muffled sobs. The hard wooden floor felt icy beneath the soles of Tim's feet, and he hugged his arms closer to his chest, peering around corners. He found him at Dick's door.

"Jay?" Tim called softly, his voice sharp in the silence and the cold. Jason's body was shuddering as he sat, cross-legged before Dick's closed door. Tim stared confusedly for a moment, before he quickly moved to let Jason in. Only when he peered into the room, he found that Dick was not there, nor did it appear that he'd come home at all. Tim sighed, looking down at the broken boy.

"I bet you don't want to sleep in an empty room, huh?" Tim shook his head, kneeling beside the weeping boy. Jason did not look up, but he stiffened, curling tighter into himself. "He's okay, you know. He probably just got wrapped up in a mission, or got too tired to make it home. It's not a big deal."

Jason pushed pitifully at Tim's chest when he wrapped his arms around his shoulders, trying to remember the little techniques Dick had showed him that could calm him down faster. Jason began to sob a little louder, and then he collapsed, burying his face into Tim's shoulder, his body quaking from fear and chills. Tim looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his back slowly, not sure if he was being much of a comfort at all. Jason wanted _Dick_, and Tim was a horrible substitute.

"I don't think Bruce is home, either," Tim murmured as Jason's sobs faded to quiet gasps. "Sorry. I know it must be hard."

Jason could be as catatonic as possible during the day, but there was no escaping his mind when sleep came. Tim knew it, and he felt a surge of pity for him, because how could he keep living on like this? He was no more self-sufficient than a toddler, needing to be spoon-fed everything, and he flinched away from the most harmless things. Even daylight seemed to send him jittery.

"Come on," Tim sighed, tugging Jason to his feet. The boy did nothing to object, but he did tilt his head back sadly, his eyes flashing fitfully in the darkness. Tim led him carefully down the hall, holding his arms tightly, just in case he decided to fight again. But he didn't. Jason was surprisingly compliant, and he didn't do much aside from hiccup and blink.

Tim shut his door behind him, rubbing his face tiredly. He didn't really… know what else to do for Jason. He'd stopped crying, which Tim was thankful for, but otherwise…

"You can sleep here," Tim said, tossing one of his pillows, and a stray blanket onto the floor for himself. He gestured to his bed, and smiled over that the boy. Then he blinked, and yelped. "What are you doing?"

Jason was fiddling with a device that Tim left on his desk, the smooth dark glass glowing a bit in the darkness. He blinked up at Tim, and he set the device on top of the blanket Tim had thrown to the floor, tilting his head as it whirred into life. Tim gaped, his eyes widening as the room was bathed in a soft glow, luminescent stars dotting the floor and walls and ceiling. The projector was mostly something Tim used when he had nightmares— but only because he had no one to go to. The revolving lamp sent out a myriad of incandescent stars, and it was always surreal to watch.

Tim stared for a moment before dropping to his knees across from Jason, his eyes following the stars as they roved around the room. He watched Jason lift his hands to the light, dipping his fingers through the dotted stars, staining them a bright white. Jason looked up at Tim, and he _smiled_.

In the morning when Dick appeared, sheepishly apologizing for not coming home— Bette Kane, though? _Really_?— Tim couldn't even find it in himself to be angry.

* * *

It was very much like drifting in a shallow pool, letting the slow current push and pull him wherever it saw fit. There was water in his ears, and in his mouth, and he was drowning, perpetually locked in crushing pressure and distant, muffled voices. There was frost clinging to his hair, and ice stinging his lips, and he floated. He wasn't sure who or where he was. He was just there. Half there, half elsewhere.

—_okay for now, right? We'll be back soon_—

There were stars. Above the frozen pool, and inside it, burning against his sides and blinding in his eyes. It made him feel warm, but only a little, because warmth was so foreign, so lost to him, and he wasn't certain anymore what it was to feel anything besides cold and hollow. He was in the midst of a maelstrom, a tempest that swirled and spat and howled. That was where all his emotions had gone. That was why he could not move.

_Don't leave_, he thought, his voice locked tight in his throat. _Please don't leave me, not again, please…_

The world was a flutter of noise and a stab of pain. Ceaseless muttering and guileless eyes, in the darkness, in the sky, behind the stars, beneath the water. Was this purgatory? Lifeless and lightless, cold and unfeeling, a somnolent in-between and a cavernous dream. He wanted for nothing, but his thoughts knotted into convoluted questions and pleas, desperately trying for answers and truths that would not come. He was lost.

A light opened in the sky. It struck him as familiar, and he blinked, his jaw slackening. It was a beacon, and the walls around him shuddered gently as he sat up, reaching for the stars and the light and the cacophony of sounds that drowned the world around him. He had a need to live. He had to find them now, now that everything seemed to be… falling. The pool was drying beneath him, and the walls were screaming, bricks crumbling and cracking. The maelstrom dispersed, collapsing on top of him, and he spluttered, blinking and clawing at the air, his fingertips brushing the white-hot stars, and he smiled, warmth spreading through his arms and legs.

—_the red looks really cool! kinda jealous that my new suit isn't snazzy anymore_—

Bright and flushed and moving, living, zooming, screaming…

—_if you're going to live here, you're going to school, and that's the end of that. please don't look at me like that_—

Voices and screeching, lights and flares and the taste of smog and dust.

—_you know I won't tell, but you really shouldn't steal books. I know you love to read but_—

Pain. Battering, and blows, fast and erratic against his bones and muscle and soft, raw skin. The stars exploded around him, and he screamed, fire lancing through his heart and head, and he felt the walls go _down_, and _down_, and _**down**_, crumbling into themselves, and suddenly the maelstrom kicked and shuddered, and twisted around him, choking him with memories and pain.

His eyelids peeled back, sticking languidly together, as if he was waking up from a long slumber. There was a blur, and a shock of pain running through his chest, and his head snapped up. Where was he? He… he couldn't… remember. He grabbed whatever weapon that was being utilized against him as it almost crashed down upon his chest, and he tore it from the thug's grasp, rounding it back in his face.

For a moment everything was quiet. He peered at the weapon— and a scream ripped from his throat, angry and anguished, and he spun around, turning on the thug— what was this, who was this, what the fuck was happening— and he flung the crowbar away, his fingers feeling sticking with blood. It was his own, he realized. Was he wearing pajamas? His mind was a mist of confusion and pain, and he saw that there were other thugs, more and more, and he leapt, twisting and bouncing on the tips of his feet.

"Shoot him!" shouted the one that had been beating him. "Quit muckin' around and finish the little shit!"

He grabbed that man by his neck and slammed his face into the ground, rubbing his nose finely into the pavement, and he snarled in response. He couldn't form the words to describe how much he wanted this man to go stick his cock into a woodchipper, or something equally cruel and painful.

Everything was so startlingly vibrant, too bright and too loud and too coarse. He couldn't handle it. He flung himself to the side, spinning and toppling two goons with a shaky flip and a dirt streaked bare foot to the throat. Why didn't he have shoes on? How had he gotten here? It was so cold— well, it was winter, wasn't it? That made sense. That was the only thing that made sense.

The gunshots nearly deafened him. He swayed, surprised when he felt a bullet tear through his upper arm— he was supposed to be faster than this. Why wasn't he…? He couldn't recall… and it _hurt_. He darted forward, his arms locking around the thug's, the one with the gun, and he gritted his teeth as he applied pressure, lots and lots and lots of pressure, and he heard a satisfying _crack_. The thug screamed, and he flung him into a wall, catching the gun with blood slick fingers. Who was next?

There was a soft rustle of fabric, and a few muffled cries of shock, and he spun, cocking the gun and pointing. His chest was heaving, and his body ached all over, and he felt as though his head was about to split in two.

The figure loomed over him, dark and scowling, and he could only stare, his finger on the trigger— but no, that wasn't right— this was… this… was…

Jason's eyes began to grow wet, and his hands trembled against the gun as Batman took a step forward, a red clad boy following in his shadow. He couldn't let go. He couldn't. This… it was…

"Is this hell?" he choked, staring up at Batman with wide, tearful eyes. The man could only stare. He looked down at the gun, and he let it fall to the ground. "Am I in hell?"

All he received was a set of pitying stares.

* * *

_This is pretty damn long, and I'm sorry for that. But hey, it was fun! This will be a three shot. I'll update as soon as I can. =]_

_If you can't tell from this last part, Jason wakes up. I don't think I need to explain much else. I'm leaving how Jason was revived ambiguous. I could easily touch upon it, but I don't know if I really want to? Hmm..._

_Once again prompted a bit by something adorable pragmatism said on tumblr. She's just got great angst ideas._

_Review, please? =]_


	2. the hollow in your eyes

**stages of deterioration**

**{the hollow in your eyes}**

It had never occurred to them that Jason might come looking for them when they were out on patrol. Jason hated going outside, and so they'd just… assumed he wouldn't wander out. That had been their mistake, and they would suffer the horrible consequences.

Alfred had called them, a little frantic at the realization that Jason was no longer in the manor. Robin didn't blame him, and there were minutes— horrible, heart-stopping minutes— where Tim thought that they might have lost him again. Batman acted as though he was being tailed by fire, moving fast and unthinking, without much care for how much destruction he caused. They had no idea where Jason could be within the city, and there was no tracker on him to speed up the hunt.

Eventually they'd found him in an alley. Beating the shit out of five thugs, without restraint or pity. And then, he turned a gun on Batman. That had been the moment that Robin had nearly screamed— screamed Jason's name, or a plea, or maybe just a wordless shriek. How could Jason do this? How could he be so cruel as to pull a _gun_ on Bruce?

But it only got worse. When Jason had let go of the gun, Robin had allowed himself to feel relieved. _Thank god, he's at least a little aware_, Robin had thought, taking a step toward the lost boy. _Dick is going to be so mad that we didn't get someone to keep an eye on him— poor Alfred is going to blame himself too, crap, we messed up_—

"Is this hell?" Jason Todd croaked his first true words since resurrection, his eyes wide and desperate and terrified. Tim stared at him, his mouth dropping open. _Oh, god, no, not now… don't tell me the walls came down now_…

But he couldn't speak. He couldn't believe it. He could feel Bruce beside him, shocked stiff and equally horrified, because… this was the worst thing for Jason. He'd suffered enough trauma, but to awake to this? To the violence they'd been trying so desperately to shield him from? No, this was the worst. The absolute worst.

Jason Todd was shaken and beaten bloody, his lip busted, and his eye swollen, but he stared anyway. His keen blue eyes were searching Batman's face hopelessly. "Am I in hell?" he breathed, looking down at his hands, horror stricken and quivering.

"Batman…" Robin whispered, not sure how to respond. How did you convince someone that the world they were living in was not dystopia?

"No," Batman said, his voice level. "You aren't in hell."

Jason looked down, and then around, his mouth falling open in wonder and confusion and horror and pain. "But…" His voice trembled, and he stumbled back, his head falling into his hands. "I… I don't understand… what happened… to me?"

"Let me explain," Batman said. He moved toward Jason, his hand extended. Jason could only stare, his mouth agape, and he shook his head mutely, tucking his chin to his chest and taking deep breaths, his shoulders shaking. He was trying not to succumb to panic, but it wasn't working. How could it? Tim would panic in his position. "Come with me. Do you remember who you are?"

Jason looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion and his lips twisted into an incredulous sneer. "What do _you_ think?" he spat, his fingers twining through his hair, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath rattling in the dim alley. The thugs were all watching, their expressions varying from startled to disbelieving.

That was all Batman needed. "Robin," he barked. He slipped forward, his cape consuming Jason and muffling his cries of shock and fear. Robin slipped a set of mechanical spheres from his belt, and he tossed them into the throng of goons, leaping up and covering his face with his cape as the pellets exploded, releasing knock out gas in a burst of fumes. Batman was already gone, and Robin easily clambered to the top of one of the nearest buildings, moving fast and deliberately.

He found Batman again, trying to wrestle a hyperventilating Jason into the Batmobile. Robin was reminded of the night they'd found the boy— only now it was so much worse, because they knew. There was no questions, no skepticism. They knew that Jason was in pain, and terrified, and they knew it was their fault for not paying more attention to him.

"Robin." Batman gave the silent order, and Robin quickly pulled Jason to him, ignoring the bizarre stare he was getting, and very gently he rocked the boy back and forth, tugging him into the back seat of the car once he calmed enough. It was late December, and it was freezing— Jason was still in his pajamas, of course, because how could he have changed? An hour ago, he could barely hold a spoon properly.

Robin was surprised how Jason just completely relented against him, his rattling breaths beginning to calm, and his face gaining a bit of color. He'd been grazed by a bullet, Robin noticed, and his entire body was a growing bruise. _We put enough on Alfred's shoulders,_ Robin thought ruefully. _Why did he have to put the responsibility of watching Jason on him too? He's going to hate himself for this…_

"It's going to be okay," Robin lied, holding Jason head against his shoulder as the boy rasped, and choked. He looked up at Robin with narrowed eyes, and he twitched against his touch.

"Who _are_ you?" he whispered, his voice thick with pain and terror. It hurt more than Robin thought it would. The fact that Jason didn't remember him. Or, perhaps… perhaps he had just never bothered to learn in the first place.

"A friend," Tim swore, peeling away his mask. "I'm your friend, see? No secrets. This isn't hell. It's life."

Jason stared at him, his breathing harsh and uneven. He slumped against Tim, and he closed his eyes, his thick eyelashes brushing against Tim's neck. "It sure doesn't feel like it…" he murmured.

Tim could only stare down at the boy— his brother, he realized, feeling a little sick— and pray that things were only uphill from here.

Who was he kidding?

* * *

"What's your name?"

Jason tugged at the bandage on his arm, frowning a little. Bruce was kneeling before the injured boy, while Tim, Dick, and Barbara all watched. Tim had called them while Alfred and Bruce had patched him up— thankfully, they'd just finished up whatever mission they'd been on with Conner and Cassie. And of course, the very mention of Jason getting out of the house had sent them absolutely _insane_. They'd calmed considerably since initially finding out, but they still looked pretty on edge.

"Jason Todd," he said in a small, hollow voice.

"What's my name?"

That caused him to roll his eyes. "Bruce Wayne," he said, a little more confidently. He looked into Bruce's eyes, but there was no challenge to them.

"And his?" Bruce asked, gesturing to Dick, who was staring intently at Jason, his hand gripping Barbara's upper arm. For emotional support, maybe.

Jason stared at Dick, his mouth opening for a few moments, before he seemed to falter. He looked down at his hands, and took a deep breath. "Dick Grayson," he said. He looked at Barbara, his jaw setting. "Barbara Gordon." Then Jason's eyes fell on him, and he gave a look of absolute indifference. "I have no idea who you are."

Tim bowed his head at this, shifting uncomfortable under Jason's scrutinizing gaze. The not-dead boy was assessing him, taking him in with a glance and chewing him out without a care. He had no recollection of Tim, and… maybe that was for the better.

"This is Tim Drake," Bruce stated. Jason's expression remained devoid of emotion. "He lives with us now."

"You mean he replaced me," Jason said. There was nothing particularly hostile in his tone, but it hurt nonetheless. Jason looked tired, and his eyes were still sort of glazed over in confusion and pain. He hadn't touched the cup of tea Alfred had given him, and he looked a little… uncomfortable.

"No!" Tim gasped. Jason's eyelids slid farther over his eyes, narrowing strangely at Tim's face. He flushed, and quickly tried to compose himself. "N-no, that's not it at all! I just—"

"Replaced me," Jason confirmed. He sounded _bored_. "Don't lie. You're wearing the evidence."

Tim looked down at his uniform— the black and the red and the bold yellow R— and he shook his head furiously. No, it wasn't true. Tim could never replace Jason. That had always been something vividly apparent. "No," Tim repeated. "I swear it's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" Jason's gaze was cold, and empty, and lifeless. It would have been better, perhaps, if Jason had been angry. Because then, at least, Tim would know that he was feeling _something_. But right now, honestly? Jason Todd looked more dead than he had during the months of his despondency.

Bruce looked down at Jason with a shade hiding his emotions. He stood rigidly, giving an air of chilliness and disapproval. "I needed a Robin, Jason," Bruce said bluntly. "There is nothing I can say that will make this easier."

Jason's eyes flicked to Bruce's face, and settled there for a moment— a few moments— a minute… and he shook his head, slowly, subtly, doubtfully. "You're right," he said in a flat voice. "There's nothing you can say that will make me understand why you did this to someone else."

His words bit into Tim's heart like a wedge of broken glass, and he felt himself close up, his emotions all folding into each other at the same time. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Jason was accusing Bruce like this, when it was Tim's fault that he was Robin. Jason should be blaming Tim.

"That's not—!" Tim gasped, his eyes widening in shock and dismay.

"Please," Jason murmured, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Please don't."

Tim's mouth snapped shut, and he recoiled as if he'd been struck. He didn't know what to do, or how to respond, so he simply averted his gaze. If Jason had been screaming, or emitting any sort of anger, then perhaps Tim would have been able to react better. To steel himself, as he'd been taught by Batman. But Jason had sounded so… dejected. Like not even he could handle his words. This wasn't how he'd expected Jason Todd to act. This wasn't right.

"Jay…" Dick spoke softly, as if he thought he would scare Jason away with his words. "Don't blame Tim, okay? He really means for the best."

Tim's entire body jolted when Jason's eyes snapped dangerously toward Dick's face, his entire body reacting in a sort of tremor, his lips drawing back, baring his teeth. "I don't blame _him_," he hissed coldly.

_No_, Tim thought helplessly. _Don't blame Bruce, Jason, it wasn't his fault_…

It seemed Jason had realized his folly, and he clapped his hands over his scalp, his fingers tangling in his hair, and he shook his head fast, profusely, gritting his teeth in frustration, perhaps, or pain, or madness. "No, no, no, no, no…" he breathed. "No, I… I didn't… I didn't mean…"

"I understand," Bruce said. There was a strained quality to his voice as he attempted to lay out the words gently, soothingly, but there was no point to it. The damage was done.

"No you don't," Jason sighed, his hands grasping at his head as if it were aflame. "You… you really, really don't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

There was nothing to say. Tim had no idea how to speak to Jason Todd now, let alone comfort him. It was as if the months of caring for him had just evaporated, and now? There was nothing but a sad, desperate ache in Tim's chest, because he had no clue how to help this time. Tim wanted to scream out in confusion and frustration, because how could the world be so cruel? To bring back Jason Todd broken, and then fix him with a poisoned needle and thorny thread? It was not fair. There was nothing to be said, and yet the world gave them a thousand words. They were all lies.

Jason flinched away from Dick when he moved to hug him, and that seemed to solidify the wall between them and Jason. He didn't want them near him. He didn't want them here at all. Barbara looked as if she was about to simultaneously burst into tears, and rip her hair out, her eyes large and wet, and her brow furrowed in anger and confusion.

"Don't touch me," Jason said. He took a deep breath, and looked up into Dick's eyes pleadingly. "Please, just… don't."

For a moment, Dick's dark blue eyes flashed with hurt. But he recovered fast, and he nodded, taking a step back. "Okay, Jason." Dick raised his hands, his palms facing the boy, and he took another careful step back. "I'm sorry. I just thought—"

"I know." Jason bowed his head, glowering at his hands. "It's not your fault, it's just… I… I can't…"

"Maybe we should call it a night," Barbara said quietly. Her voice was throaty and thin, and her fingers had somehow found themselves intertwined with Dick's. She looked ready to throw something, really, but if she was angry, she kept it to herself. Jason looked up just as Dick nodded, his hand tightening around hers.

"I can take you home," he said. She merely nodded vacantly, her tired eyes resting on Jason's face.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she promised. Jason blinked, and frowned, nodding a little. He watched them leave, his eyes trailing with them as the disappeared. He continued to stare long after they were gone. And then, just as Tim was getting uncomfortable, Jason's eyes snapped back to Bruce, heavily lidded and terrified.

"How long?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Bruce stared, his face stony, and Tim wanted nothing more than to shrink into nothing and crawl away. "How long was I dead?"

The battered boy got no reply. Nothing but a weary stare, and a hard expression. Jason gritted his teeth loud enough for Tim to hear the soft _crick-cracking_ of his jaw, and the boy jumped to his feet. "Bruce!" he gasped, raising his voice for the first time since… well, since reviving, really. "How _long_?"

There was a flutter of emotion that moved across Bruce's face. A flicker of pity, of doubt, of complete and utter despair— it was so brief, Tim thought he'd imagined it. "Two years, as of last Wednesday," Bruce said. His voice was gentle this time, and soft, brushing the air as thinly as tissue paper, and nearly cracking all the same.

Jason stood quietly. He didn't look particularly shocked, but rather dazed— not dazed as Tim was used to, but dazed as in… he looked shell-shocked. Stunned into silence, jaw locked and tongue tied, and eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing. Tim wished for words that would make it all better— but Tim had never been very good with words, and he wasn't sure that there were any that could possibly fix this mess.

"I…" Jason's breaths were short and shallow, and he was gripping his cotton tee shirt by the fistful as he rasped, eyes wide and fearful. "I… think… I-I remember… waking up… and it was…" He looked up, suddenly conscious of what he was saying. He choked on his gasped, his ashen face growing paler. "Dark."

He looked very uncomfortable after that, and quickly excused himself, fleeing the cave without another look at either Tim or Bruce. Tim stared after him, uncertain and scared, because what if he had a nightmare? Jason would be less willing to let them help now— he would just try and deal with it by himself, like Tim did. But Tim had never had the type of issues Jason had. In comparison, Tim felt sort of sheltered, and small.

"What do we do now?" Tim asked Bruce, staring up at his mentor with a desperate, pleading gaze.

Bruce closed his eyes. He turned in a sweep of a heavy black cape, and he left Tim with his head bowed, and his shoulders taut. There were a few moments of sickening silence, the remnants of the traumatic night clinging still to the air around him. And he felt certain then that there was nothing fair about the world. Anything remotely good was only soiled in the end.

* * *

Remembering was only as bad as he allowed it to be. It was a stark sort of pain that he tried to bury, a stabbing in his heart that he covered with sand and stone and little prayers to nothing. A few days, and he was relapsing, his mind flinging itself between catatonic and lucid, stuck in an amorphous rut. Was he alive? Was he, truly? Could he say that he was, when he felt so fucking _dead_? The memories were so vague, so dark and painful, he'd just rather let them lie where they were. Crumbling to ash at the back of his mind, beside the clawing beast that lurched and laughed and screeched maniacally, grinning madly all the way.

Death had been so simple. It had happened— it had hurt. And then it didn't. He'd been okay with that (had he a choice?), and it had seemed so… nice for a while. And then… and then he was quite literally dragged back into hell, kicking and screaming, so damaged by the experience that his own mind _couldn't deal with it_ for three months. How could he allow himself to shut down? How could he stop it? How did he reach for the emotions that were startlingly absent, and how did he numb the senses that were revved up on high power, harsh and blaring and grating and shrill, too bright, too loud, too rough, too strong, too much, too much, too much?

They tried. Why were they trying so hard? Did he make it obvious that he felt disgusting? He tried not to, really, for their own good. He didn't talk to Tim, because Tim was… a stranger, and the next trial, and actually super frigging quiet, like, it was really off-putting when they were left alone together. It was a series of unspoken apologies and uncertainties and desperate little whims that only a Robin could wish, and he was so shy and self-conscious, Jason almost pitied him.

But, truthfully? Jason could not care less about Tim Drake. He was there, and that was… fine. There was a sense of apathy that clung to him like a shroud, tugging at his heart, worming its way in and drowning it, cleansing it of all emotional turmoil and spitting it out somewhere in the dark, cold recesses of the cavities of Jason Todd's twisted mind.

He tried not to flinch when his door was flung open at an absurd hour of the morning, light only just spilling through Jason's window as dawn broke across Gotham City. He studied the patterns of his ceiling, his eyes following the swirls and grooves, drawing out the faintly connecting lines and cracks in the molding. His blankets were a tangled mess around his legs, gnarling him up in a twisted cocoon from all the tossing and turning he'd accomplished that night. The bed felt too squishy, too much like the feeling of his coffin, and whenever he closed his eyes he _felt_ it— the asphyxiation closing in, the desolation and solitude of knowing that he was laying in his grave.

He felt someone crawl carefully onto the edge of his bed, and bounce gently so the springs of the mattress would rock him into consciousness. This action was vaguely familiar, as if he'd experienced it in a dream, someplace, some time, so long ago it was nothing but a fuzzy spark of recognition.

"Jason," Dick whispered, never going so far as to touch him— it seemed that he was afraid to, now, as if his touch would shatter Jason's already fragile mind. Not that Jason wasn't grateful, but damn, it was so weird, because Dick had always been so touchy and affectionate that it had caused a plethora of actual fistfights. Jason missed that. Or, maybe he just missed the feeling of it. "Wakey, wakey, Jay."

"I'm awake," Jason said, sitting up. He'd never slept. Dick met him with a big, eager smile, and he looked so much like a small child, his eyes large and gleaming in the sliver of yellow light that glowed through the windows.

"Merry Christmas!" Dick whispered excitedly, his hands splaying in midair. Jason stared, his eyes widening in confusion and shock. _It's Christmas_, he thought numbly. _How did I not know that?_

"Right," he said, his voice tight, and his expression vacant. "Yeah…"

Dick's smile was dampened considerably at this response, and he shook his head quickly, his eyes glowing apologetically in the dimness of the morning. Jason didn't know what to say. He almost felt guilty about not realizing it was Christmas, just because Dick had seemed so… so elated, and so bright. It reminded Jason of the earlier days of being Robin, when they had both been too young and silly to give a care in the world. Dick was older now. Not just physically, but… Jason could see it in his face, and his eyes, and the way he moved. There was no air of confidence there, no hopeful words or teasing gestures.

_Fuck_. He tugged his legs from the knot of blankets, his stomach churning in disgust and despair. _I did this to him. I ruined him._

"You can go back to sleep if you want," Dick said, his head cocking. Jason was disturbed by how easily he covered his pain with nonchalance. Jason remembered that Dick was a skilled actor, nearly as good as Bruce Wayne. But this? This was uncanny. His listless smile was placed easily, carefully, against his lips and stretched thinly enough to appear casual. But it didn't reach his large blue eyes, even if they were crinkled slightly in a tender amusement. It was all fake. Dick had the art of being _okay _very nearly perfected. It was only nearly, though, because Jason could see the pretend. He could see it in the way he breathed, and he could see it in the darkness that clung behind his eyes_. I broke something that was already broken. Way to go, Todd, you're about as benevolent as the god damn friggin' bubonic plague. _

"I wasn't asleep," Jason said, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked up at Dick, and he shrugged, his body feeling raw and prickly as dawn's slippery rays licked at his cheeks, hot and taunting. "It's just… well, you know I can attest to the fact that this holiday is complete bullshit, right?"

That made Dick smile. A real one, cracked clean across his face with cheeky quality that was so inherently Dick, it made Jason smile a little too. Despite not really feeling especially happy, or feeling much at all but the crawl of light, slimy and warm, against his neck and cheek.

"Since when have we actually cared about that?" Dick asked, his chin rising defiantly. "Who cares if the reason behind the holiday is bogus? It's still got that feeling to it."

"Feeling?"

Dick rolled his eyes, fast and smart and knowing, and he hopped off the bed, shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah, you know," Dick said easily, waving a hand. "Nostalgic, and hopeful. You know the feeling, don't lie. It's that Christmasy feeling, Jay."

He didn't know. Maybe he did once— he vaguely recalled the emotions the sights of twinkling lights and snowcapped trees had stirred within him— but now it was nothing but a strange, empty pit in his chest. Whatever, it was a dumb holiday. Right…?

"Oh," Jason said, nodding slowly. "Right. Um… Merry Christmas." _I guess._ He slipped out of bed, the cold air biting harshly at his skin, gnawing at his bare feet as he moved quietly behind Dick. Christmas. He could taste that word. Peppermint and startling, warm but ephemeral— dulcet, spiked with a shot of whiskey and fragile dreams.

He wished he could say he felt surprised at seeing Bruce awake, lounging in a chair with Alfred at his back, and gripping a cup of coffee so tight it could shatter. But Jason wasn't surprised. He wasn't anything. Just… sort of confused, maybe, and almost bewildered. Tim was sitting by the tree, looking fascinated by a camera cupped in his hands, his long face taking on a childlike quality from the awed, excited expression on his face, and the silly black hat planted on his head. It was likely very soft, from its furry appearance, and it hung over his ears, trailing down in two dark strings beneath his neck. The real kicker was the protrusions at the crown of the hat, pointed and peachy within the kitten ears. Jason couldn't help but smirk at the sight.

"What do they call you?" Jason asked dryly, ignoring the alarmed look that darted across Tim's face when he realized he was being addressed. "Catboy? Catlad? The Kitten?"

There was a strange, creeping silence after he spoke, as if there was no comprehension of a dead boy telling a joke. Jason didn't feel uncomfortable— well, he did, but not because of the silence. He was tired, and he felt… rotten. On the inside. He felt like his body had hollowed itself out, gutted him like a fucking jack-o-lantern, or something equally unnerving and grotesque. But he wouldn't let them know that.

Tim flushed a bright red, and Jason peered at him as Dick's laughter boomed throughout the room. Tim tugged self-consciously at the ends of the hat strings, and he looked down at his camera. "Dick has one for you too," he said, as if this would make the sight any less of a spectacle.

"I won't wear it."

"Sure you will," Dick said, wandering over to Bruce, who stared rather distantly at the wall while his oldest ward draped a blue and red scarf around his neck. Bruce sipped his coffee pensively, choosing to ignore Dick as he scooped up a hat, patterned similarly with a Superman shield emblazoned on its front, and tucked it carefully onto the man's head. Jason could only stare, genuinely feeling a strange pang of… surprise, maybe, at how subdued Bruce was. Dick stepped back to admire his handiwork, just as there was a sharp _snap_, and the room blinked with a blinding flash of light that stretched all around, encompassing them and choking Jason's breath for a few moments. Jason looked to Tim, who was holding his new camera just below his chin, and had a very pleased expression across his usually solemn face.

Dick laughed harder, if possible, and Tim began to laugh too, a soft, shy ring that echoed in the spacious room tentatively. Jason managed an empty chuckle, only because he knew it was funny, and it scared him more than he could properly comprehend how little it amused him. He didn't want to be like this. He wanted to laugh, and feel the laughter bubble in his chest and burst from his mouth erratically and accidentally, unthinkingly. Easily as breathing. But no, he couldn't.

Bruce watched them with a dull gaze until they ceased their laughter. And then, Jason was further startled to see a smile crack at his stony face, his eyes trailing between the three of them with a strange emotion overtaking them. Bruce looked so content, it was all Jason could do to not run from the room screaming in frustration, because he was ruining it with his thoughtlessness, his discomfort, his fear, his inability to connect.

"If that photo finds its way out of this house," Bruce said, bringing his mug to his lips, "I'm disowning you all."

"You guys can live in my apartment," Dick chirped, catching a gift that Tim had tossed to him. "It might get a little tight though."

"And awkward when you forget we're there and accidentally bring, say, _Bette Kane_ home for a friendly visit," Tim replied, reaching beneath the tree and withdrawing a multitude of wrapped presents, stacking them on top one another carefully. Jason blinked, and he looked at Dick questioningly. He was awkwardly avoiding Bruce's raised eyes, which looked to be a cross between amused and disturbed.

"Uh..." Dick gave an uneasy chuckle, his brow furrowing a little. "I wouldn't do that, Tim, come on. Why such little faith?"

"Experience?" Tim set the gifts down carefully in front of Jason before quickly retreating, as if he was afraid Jason would snap and tear him to itty-bitty Timmy-kitty bits. Jason stared at the pile for a moment, before his eyes turned confusedly to Tim.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice sounding dead even to him. Tim opened his mouth, blinking in a startled manner, and he looked quickly to Dick as if for encouragement. Then he tilted his head, looking back at Jason with a very small smile.

"It's Christmas," Tim said gently. "Duh."

_That's not fair_, Jason thought, the faded memory of anger surfacing. Anger felt hot and deadly, fast and fleeting and detrimental. It came without warning, like a hard punch in the gut, and it did not relent until some sort of crushing damage was done. It was true, Jason couldn't feel angry, but he wished he could. He wished this stupid boy could ignore him, or be a bigger pest, because then it would be easier to hate him.

"I…" Jason stared at the presents, troubled by the sight of them. "No, I can't. I didn't ge—"

"I know," Tim said, silencing him with a meager smile. "And that's completely fine."

_Fuck you_, Jason wished he could say. _How the hell can you be so frigging nice to me? You should hate me. I want you to hate me. This isn't fair_.

Instead, he opened his gifts. Because he could do nothing else. He felt like a shell, and his fingers were glass, threatening to shatter if they fumbled too much. It was sad, and he was angry. Not with Tim, but with himself. This wasn't fair. But there was no choice in whether Jason complied to the norm, because he simply had no energy to object. The sad truth was that Jason Todd could not manage the conflicting emotion of rage or even comprehend the nature of defiance any longer. He wanted to crawl away and hide beneath his blankets, and maybe then his mind would shut itself off. Just for a little while. Just enough for him to gain a little more composure, a little more sanity, a little rest and a little sense of self.

Books. Tim Drake— a boy he scarcely knew— had assembled a small collection of books, and on top of that, a small red pocket journal. When Jason picked it up to thumb through it, his fingertips brushing and twitching against the thin, crisp paper, slipping and nearly slicing against the sharp edge. The blank pages spoke volumes to him, susurrus words that bled through the white and screamed at him, holding him by the throat and laughing.

He clapped the little book shut and tossed it aside, staring at his hands with wide eyes, expectantly awaiting the red smears to transfer to his trembling fingers. When they didn't, he found himself slumping, the harsh revelation that he had been hallucinating hitting him hard. He didn't feel very well at all.

Tim leaned over, taking the journal from the floor and placing it back on the pile of books calmly. "I thought you might like a new one," he said slowly. He rubbed his head, his hands sliding over the dark cat ears of his hat. "Since you destroyed all your other notebooks."

"I did?" Jason did not recall this at all. It was alarming, but he wasn't really shocked for some reason. After all, he was still searching his fingers for phantom blood. _What's wrong with me?_

"Yeah…" Tim looked away and shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal, but… yeah, I thought you might want to try and fill in the blanks in your memory. The good things, I mean. It might help you feel better."

It made too much sense for Jason to bear. He closed his eyes, and he nodded mutely, his stomach churning with bile and twisting sickeningly— and yet it growling and moaned, hungering for something substantial. Jason refused. The last time he'd eaten a full meal, he'd spent half the early morning beside a toilet.

Later, Jason took a pen, and he stared at the little red journal with narrowed eyes. When it did not bleed into his palms, he carefully began to write, penning his thoughts in a dark, thickly stroked script.

_I think I came back wrong_.

* * *

If Tim said he thought Jason was getting better, he would be lying. Jason wasn't getting better. They were all just getting used to the way he was now— strangely quiet, and nervous, always so, so nervous… he didn't like being touched, or being around too many people for too long. He did speak, and he smiled and laughed and joked, but it was all a mask. He was acting as he thought they wanted him to act, when in reality it only made him seem more prone to a panic attack. Tim wanted to help, he really did, but he couldn't talk to Jason properly. He wouldn't allow Tim to be near him, and when he did, it was usually only because the boy didn't feel like moving.

Jason didn't feel like doing a lot of things. Leaving the manor was a huge one. Eating was another.

He was growing paler and paler with every passing day. His cheeks were hollow now, his cheekbones strangely prominent, and looking into his eyes was horrible. The sharp blue was faded into cloudy lovat, and the dark circles under his eyes only grew more and more swollen. See, Tim understood why Dick and Bruce weren't saying anything to him about his unhealthy living habits (understatement, such a huge understatement), but couldn't they see that it was killing him? He was whittling away into nothing, and soon he'd just give up on living completely.

The new year came with more responsibility. Dick tasked Tim with leading for the first time, and that had been… an experience. Tim didn't trust himself to not screw up. During the entire mission he had been trying so hard to follow orders, to make sure he didn't make the mistakes of his predecessor. And he'd almost killed himself anyway. Almost.

The worst was yet to come. Tim had been wrapping up some of his homework, half attentive to the history notes, half managing his report to Batman about the Gamma debacle. Jason was somewhere— in his room, or in the bathroom, or on the roof. Tim learned not to bother him when he was trying to sort out his thoughts.

Tim reacted to the scream on reflex. He was already up and running to Jason's door by the time he heard the sharp _crash_, and a series of clattering noises from behind the walls. Tim stared at the door for a moment, almost too frightened to knock. But he did, quickly rapping his knuckles against the wood, and he took a deep breath.

"Jason?" he called. "Are you okay?"

Jason's response was a laugh. A crazed, wet, incredulous laugh, which turned to a snarl faster than Tim could even blink. "Go away, birdy," Jason spat, his voice muffled between the wall.

"I heard a crash, though," Tim said, leaning close to the door. "Did you break something?"

"Nope!" He sounded hysterical. His voice was lilting, soft and breaking and edging on falling through and turning into a screech.

"You're lying." Tim took the doorknob, and he leaned his head against the door, staring at the swirling grooves in the wood. "Can I come in? I just want to make sure you're okay."

Tim could hear Jason's rattling breaths through the walls and the door, and it scared him. "I don't need your help," hissed the boy. "I said _go away_!"

"I can't," Tim said softly. "I'm coming in, Jason."

Tim jumped away from the door, wide eyed as it thumped loudly, no doubt from a fist colliding with its other side. "I said _no_," Jason growled, his voice raw and raucous. "I don't need you. I don't even _know_ you! Just stay away from me!"

That stung Tim enough for him to stumble into the wall behind him, his back connecting with a doorframe. He stared at the door, his mouth dropping open, and he turned his head away, his body shrinking back as though the words had stabbed him, a fast and accurate knife between the ribs and through his lungs. _He's right_, Tim realized, sliding down the wall in shock and dejection. _He doesn't know me at all. I'm just a stranger to him, how am I supposed to help?_

He sat on the ground for a minute or so, stunned into immobility. Then Tim decided he didn't care how little Jason knew him. Tim was Jason's brother, whether he liked that idea or not, and he would act in that role until it was no longer necessary. He pushed himself to his feet, listening to the muffled swears that rang behind the wall, and he flung himself at the door, pushing it open with very little effort.

Jason didn't even raise his eyes to Tim when he entered the room, quickly searching for the damage done. He spotted a split wire grid, and a disjointed keypad, and he realized quickly what had been smashed to bits. As far as Tim knew, Jason rarely accessed his computer, and tended to stick more with his books and absolute solitude. Tim stared at the decimated laptop, and he sighed, turning to Jason with wary eyes.

"You can talk to me, you know," Tim said. Jason's entire body tensed up, and his eyes flashed viciously toward his, glowing with a twinge of madness and rage.

"If I wanted to talk to you," Jason hissed, "I _would_. Get out of my room!"

"No." Tim stared at Jason, his eyes lowering to the ground in guilt and pity. He quickly shut the door, and he looked back at Jason pleadingly, stepping toward him with raised hands. "I won't tell anyone about the computer if you just tell me why you did it."

"It's none of your business." Jason's eyes were narrowed into an astonishingly powerful glower before it broke into a panicked set of glances. Tim's steady approach seemed to frighten him, and that only fueled his anger. "What are you doing? Get away from me!"

"Jason…" Tim whispered, stopping and taking a deep breath. Jason only stared, his entire body shaking with rage and terror and confusion. "I'm not Bruce. I'm not Dick, either, I'm just… I'm just here, and I'm sorry if you hate me for that—"

"Oh my god," Jason groaned, his palms clapping against his head as he flung it back and growled in frustration. "Shut up! I don't hate you, fuck up! This has nothing to do with you! Just _leave_!"

_He just called me a fuck up_, Tim thought, bewildered. _Am I a fuck up?_ "I really can't," Tim murmured, taking a step away from Jason, and back pressing to the door. He felt desperate, and the dreary room was clawing at Tim's senses, forcing him to see sort of topsy-turvy.

"Why not?" Jason sneered and gestured wildly to the door, and then to the window. "You've got two choices, baby bird, and I swear to friggin' god they're both gonna hurt. So just do me a favor and get the fuck out."

_Baby bird?_ Tim watched Jason curiously, and he frowned, feeling overbearing and stupid. _Is that supposed to be an insult?_

"Because your quest for self-destruction is going too far," Tim said, his voice very soft. Jason merely stared, his face going blank. "Because I can't anymore. I can't watch you destroy yourself, not when you mean so much to everyone here."

That made him laugh. He stared for a short moment, and he flung his head back and laughed. His eyes darted fast, examining Tim's expression, and he laughed louder, the sound stretching across the room and ringing caustically inside Tim's head, like a pounding drum, sharp and heavy and throttling. Tim watched as he clutched his chest, and then his head, and his laughs melted to screams, startling and staccato and salient, harshly reverberating against the walls.

Tim was too frightened to run to him. Attempting to calm him down was nowhere in Tim's mind, and the only thoughts that he could muster were filled with fear and uncertainty. Had Jason finally cracked? Had the pressure become too much, or the dehydration and malnutrition had affected his brain? Tim wasn't sure. It was so unnerving, he couldn't be sure at all.

"Stop," Tim whispered. Jason kept screaming, teary eyed and quaking. Tim stumbled forward, catching Jason by the arms and shaking him hard. "Stop it! Snap out of it, Jason!"

"Do you—" Jason rasped, falling into Tim's grip with a snarl and a scream. "Do you really think that they _care_ about me?"

"How could you even question it?" Tim wondered as Jason broke away him, stumbling backwards against a mirror on the wall, which swayed a little on impact.

"Wow," Jason spat, his voice wavering as his screams calmed to short gasps. "I dunno, great question, let me just ask the _Joker_. I'm sure he'll tell it like it is."

That made Tim blink, startled and confused, and his mouth dropped open. He gaped for a few moments while Jason glared, gasping quietly, and clutching his chest with shaky hands. "I don't understand…" Tim said slowly.

"Of course you don't." Jason's eyes were alight with something Tim had never seen before within the boy. It was as if, before now, he'd had nothing to feel alive about. But the Joker's very name seemed to inspire a spark of life within the dead boy, and it was a strange sort of irony. "You idolize Bruce. You're like me, if I actually gave a shit about what Batman told me to do. So obviously you wouldn't understand how pissed I am over the fact that the bastard who _killed_ me is still alive!"

"Why wouldn't he be…?" Tim stopped, and he felt sick. He stared at Jason, horrified and awestruck. Jason stared back, looking dead and deadly and damaged. He grinned wickedly, and he ran his fingers through his loose, tangled black hair.

"Shocked, Timmy?" Jason taunted.

"Batman doesn't kill," Tim blurted. "You know that. Why would you…?"

"I thought," Jason hissed, "that he would make an exception. But I guess I wasn't worth it."

"That's not it."

"Then what the hell was it?" Jason's arms dropped limply to his sides, and his grin slipped from his face, and his eyes lost that ruthless fire. Instead, a void stare replaced it, an uncanny gaze of pure impassiveness. "Why didn't he do it? He had the chance. Multiple times. I saw. I read it. Joker caught, Joker beaten bloody, Joker escaped. It's an endless chase, and Batman keeps getting played over and over. The Joker knows he would never kill him, and that just keeps him going. Why didn't he do it when he could? Why did he let me die if not to have a reason to finally get that son of a bitch?"

"He didn't let you die, Jason," Tim said, feeling a squirming in his stomach at the suggestion of Batman killing anyone.

"He didn't let me live, either," Jason replied coldly.

There was a chilly silence that followed his words, and Tim could only stare, his mouth agape in horror. This was the longest conversation Tim had ever had with Jason Todd. And it was scaring him more than the screams ever had, almost as much as that night when Tim had found him attempting to drown himself in the bathtub. Everything about this was wrong, and Jason was wrong, he was so, so, so wrong. How could he not see it? How could he be so blind?

"I'm sorry," Tim choked. Jason's eyes watched him, unblinking and devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry that you can't have retribution for your murder. But Batman doesn't kill people, and neither does Nightwing." _He came close though_, Tim thought, remembering the last time the Joker had escaped with vivid detail. It had taken M'gann, Conner, Barbara, and Wally (through a _phone_) to get him to calm down enough to realize what he'd nearly done. The Joker had only just recovered from the damage Batman had done to him during his last escape, and Tim would never forget how Nightwing's wrath had nearly destroyed everything. Not just the Joker. _Everything_.

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Jason smiled bitterly. "They don't kill. The Joker does. He's going to keep killing, and destroying, and tearing people apart until his heart stops beating, and even then he'll still be here. He's _always_ here."

Tim watched Jason, his stomach lurching in discomfort and terror as he began to understand. "Always?" Tim whispered, sickened by the thought. He searched Jason's face, his pallid, fear stricken face, his colorless lips, his gauzy eyes, the dark circles and swollen stare. His skeletal frame, and his refusal to be touched, his refusal to eat more than a few bites of food a day, his refusal to let people in.

And Jason could only stare, dead on the inside, dead on the outside. He turned away, and he stared into the mirror, his reflection ghostly and emaciated. "Get out," Jason murmured. "Please. Please get away from me."

Tim obliged without another word.

* * *

"What do you mean you're leaving?" Jason asked, looking between Bruce and Dick with wide, startled eyes. "You're leaving us? You're leaving Gotham?"

"It won't be forever," Bruce said calmly. He hid his pain well. But Tim could still see it there, buried deep in his dark gaze. Jason had not spoken to Bruce about his trouble with the Joker still being alive, and Tim was struggling with keeping it a secret. And now Bruce was going to Rimbor to stand trial for a crime he couldn't be blamed for, leaving the unstable boy to Dick, who would scarcely get angry with him, Alfred, who was the only one who could manage getting Jason to eat once a day, and Tim, who was at a constant battle with himself and his fear of what Jason Todd might bring. "Dick will be able to handle Gotham for me, and if there's any trouble, I trust you to not make a large mess."

"You're going to be on trial," Jason stated. His voice was bland, and he folded his arms across his chest. "You've already admitted to the crime. They're going to put you in jail!"

"No. We're going to fix this, and make peace, and then we'll come home." Bruce gave Jason a long look, his eyes softening considerably, and he shook his head. "I'm not leaving any of you. I swear to you, I'll be back as soon as I can manage it." _I would never leave you alone_, his voice carried this silent reassurance, despite not speaking it. Jason could only stare, and he looked down, and did not say another word for three days.

Jason left the house for the first time in over a month the day Batman departed. He wore jeans, and a dark red sweatshirt, combing his matted dark hair into something semi presentable. He wore a pair of dark aviators, and refused a coat despite the winter chill outside. Tim was watching him closely, and he seemed to be repulsed by the outside world, hunched and scowling as he looked around at the Leaguers and protégés that had appeared for the occasion. At first, he went unnoticed. But of course, things could not be so simple.

"Robin?" a voice gasped. Tim looked up at M'gann in response as she appeared very close by, her eyes wide and shocked. Then she shrieked in surprise and delight, streaking past Tim.

"M'gann, no, don't—!" Tim choked on his warning as M'gann captured Jason in a tight hug. Tim saw Jason's face, pale and twisted in discomfort, and he looked up at Nightwing. They hadn't told the Team about Jason because they were not certain if Jason was ready to see them again.

"Uh," Cassie said, tilting her head at the scene confusedly. "Hey, Miss Martian? I think Robin's over there."

"No!" M'gann blurted. She quickly let go of Jason, and glanced apologetically at Tim. "I mean, yes, he is, but… wait, I don't… I don't understand, how is this possible? Nightwing?"

"It's…" Dick looked away from M'gann, not meeting Conner's gaze as he quickly stepped forward, peering at Jason with narrowed eyes. Raquel was staring as well from a little ways away, looking unsure. "It's complicated, Miss M."

"You're dead," Conner observed, frowning pensively at Jason. Jason stared in response, his lips twisting into a sneer.

"Classy as hell, like always, Supey," Jason spat. Nightwing looked a little worried, and he turned to Barbara, who was standing beside him. She was smiling thinly, but she looked at Tim, and they shared a glance of fright.

"Wait, you're the Robin before our Robin? That guy?" Cassie stared at Jason in awe and fascination, and she grinned brightly. "That's so cool! So you rose from the dead? Like a messiah, or something?"

That made Jason laugh sharply, the sound very icy and hostile. It forced Cassie's smile to disappear, and she looked up at Nightwing with wide eyes. He held his hand up to calm her. "I'm about as messianic as the third Reich," Jason said. His voice was flat, and he was still obviously recovering from the unwanted hug. "But yeah, I guess. Who are you, anyway?"

"Oh." Cassie laughed uneasily, and held out her hand. Jason stared at it blankly. "I'm Wonder Girl! I showed up a little after you… uh…"

"Died." Jason said the word with a bite, and a strangely feral grin. "You can say it. Boo. I'm dead. I'm sorry if I have to pass on the gory details, but hey, gotta keep it PG, right?"

"That's enough." Batman appeared behind Jason, forcing the boy to stiffen up, his face going blank again. He must have just used that smile to creep Cassie out.

"I still don't understand," Conner said, looking at Nightwing quizzically. "Death doesn't work like this."

"Wow, still sharp as whip," Jason mused. Cassie cracked a smile while Conner simply glared.

"It's complicated," Nightwing repeated. "Maybe we can go back to the Cave later and talk about it—"

"I'll pass," Jason said, turning to Batman and saying nothing more. Not even when provoked. Batman was looking down at him, and he placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, leading him slowly away from the throng of spectators.

"What's going on?" Conner hissed to Nightwing immediately after Batman and Jason were out of earshot. "Why didn't you tell us about this before?"

"It was personal," Nightwing replied in a level tone. He looked at Conner, and he shook his head. "Look, I know his death… it hit everyone pretty hard."

"Pretty hard?" Conner's eyes narrowed, and he scoffed as Cassie wandered back to Wonder Woman, leaving only M'gann to watch Jason's back as Batman spoke to him quietly. "After he died, everything fell apart. We fell apart. Don't tell me I'm the only one who noticed."

"You're not," Nightwing said, sounding small and sad. Tim felt like he wasn't supposed to be hearing this conversation. M'gann looked somber, and she glanced at Conner quickly, her brown eyes flashing almost guiltily. "He doesn't know. About Artemis and Wally and Garth quitting, or Kaldur, or Tula, or any of it."

"Does he think Aqualad is still leading us?" M'gann asked, sounding horrified. "I don't understand, Nightwing, what is hiding this from him going to accomplish?"

"Nothing," Barbara said, speaking up for the first time. Conner and M'gann looked startled, as if they'd forgotten she and Tim were there. "That's kind of the point."

Tim quickly went on for her when he saw Conner about to object. "We're trying to prevent a mental breakdown," Tim said. "Not cause one."

Nightwing nodded in agreement, smiling gratefully at Robin and Batgirl. "He's been having a really hard time readjusting to life," Nightwing said carefully. "He loved the Team, and that kind of information is hard to swallow in one go, even for someone not undergoing a huge life crisis."

"But he's alive…" M'gann smiled sadly, and she looked down at her feet. "I wish Tula would come back too."

_No you don't_, Tim thought. _You're just wishing her to calvary. _

* * *

The passage of time was so slow, he could feel it slipping past him, hot and indolent, but snappish and harsh all the same. It felt like years since Bruce had left, when in reality? It'd only been a few weeks. Well, probably. Jason didn't really know what day it was anymore. Days passed listlessly, and Jason was plagued by constant lassitude and insomnia. Nights were a painful prayer for light, and days were a regretful descent into darkness.

Dick truly did try to help, but it didn't take Jason long to realize that it was going to cost him his sanity. He didn't say anything, but sometimes Jason would watch him, hiding in the shadows when Dick thought he was asleep, and he looked inured. Hardened and dazed and stress-ridden. Dick Grayson wasn't quite as broken as Jason Todd, but there was a very visible chasm that he tried to cover with too big smiles, and a gentle type of teasing.

Jason had headaches, but he never took anything for them. He was afraid that… that if he numbed the pain with drugs, he might… but that was silly, and he knew it. Still, it was a necessary sacrifice. A little pounding inside his head would scarcely kill him. He lived on, if anyone could call what he was doing living— he didn't want to be like this. He often fished through his shoebox full of old photographs, desperately searching his own happy face for something, anything, any kind of hint to tell him how to become that person again. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He didn't want to be a burden. He'd leave, if he thought it would help, but he knew it would only pain him more. He felt empty, but he felt fractured, as if his mind was pulling him in twelve different directions at every moment. Memories kept surfacing and fading, strange flickers of déjà vu that sent him curling up beneath a blanket, biting back screams.

One night, he was overtaken by his own recollection. He wandered into Tim's room, finding it empty and cleanly, the walls all blank, pale blue slates, and the floor and desk spotless. He stood for a moment in the doorway, confused as to why he was even there, before he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. It was dim in the room, moonlight pooling against the checkered comforter on Tim Drake's bed, and spilling onto the wooden floor. Jason took in the little factors, the way Tim stacked his books by genre rather than author name, and how he kept his pens and pencils stocked in a ceramic mug with a bat insignia painted delicately across its face.

Then he spotted the lamp. He plucked it from the desk, struck by its shape and its nagging familiarity, and he stared at it as minutes ticked by. He was conflicted, his mind playing unfair tricks on him, whispering soft words of assurance, as if this was all comforting somehow. But no. It wasn't. It wasn't at all, and he felt sickened by it all, and he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, just for a little while, and to sleep it all away. But sleep came with nothing but terror and screams. He wasn't sure anymore what he wanted for himself, or if he wanted anything. He remembered being always determined, always a survivor. But now? He could not care less if he died.

_I'd welcome it_, he thought, embittered. _Death was easier than this._

But he didn't want to die again. Dying was crushing, stifling, and it hurt more— more than this endless apathy, and sensory overload, more than this hell on earth. And he would hurt everyone again. Dying the first time had completely destroyed the Dick Grayson he had known— the man he was now was simply the pieces that had been recovered and taped back together haphazardly, hastily and clumsily, hopelessly trying to solve the jigsaw puzzle that was Dick's happiness. That was long gone. He acted like he was happy, but he wasn't, and that troubled Jason more than most things did. Maybe because it was his fault? He should feel more guilty, but…

_Everywhere I go_, Jason realized, _I just make everything worse. I'm just doomed. Destined to fuck up everything for everyone_.

He dazedly began to play with the lamp, his fingertips sliding over the cool glass, taking in the smooth texture and closing his eyes to listen as the world around him whirred softly, and the machine burst into life and light and a flurry of stars splashed into the darkness, catching him in the face and the eyes and mouth. He could taste them. He felt them tickle his skin, hot and prickly, breathing a soft warmth on naked flesh, and he could smell them, burning and charred, a scintilla of electric tangs and pangs and power.

Jason set the lamp down on the floor, and it spun slowly, sending stars and stars and stars, round and round, again and again. On the walls, on the floor, sprawled against the moonlight and poking fervent holes in the abyss that had settled at Jason's core. And he watched. He wasn't sure how long he sat, his back against Tim's bed, and his knees tucked to his chest, but he did, and he thought. He thought about how much time he was wasting, how abysmal life seemed now, how his skin crawled at every single little thing. He wanted to live. He wanted to be alive. This thing he was playing at? It wasn't life. He wasn't living.

_If this is hell, maybe I should be a demon_. Jason leaned forward, his hands catching against the dotted lights, glowing luminously in the dark. He reached for the lamp, his body tensing as he caught it with nimble fingers, and he thought, and thought, and prayed. He was doomed to fuck up everything. He was a master at breaking things, and this was no different. The light was blinding, but soothing, and he thought, he thought, he prayed to nothing and to everything, to his emotions that were nonexistent, and to his senses which were revving at full throttle.

Tim caught him like that, about to smash the lamp to bits. He stood in the doorway, a cookie hanging from his lips, and they stared at each other for a few moments, utterly shocked at each other's appearance. Then Tim dropped the cookie into his palm, tossing it onto his desk as he ran forward, snatching the lamp from Jason's burning fingers.

"What are you _doing_?" Tim gasped, clutching the revolving projector to his chest, and the stars glittered across his sullen face, echoing in his eyes and flushing on his skin. Jason cocked his head, blinking slowly as the stars left his eyes, dispersing slowly. It was like a fog was being lifted, and he opened his mouth, but found that his lips were trembling. There was a scream in his throat, begging to be released, and he could feel it tremble there, but he swallowed it _down_, and _down,_ and _**down**_.

"I…" Jason looked around, his eyes trailing with the spinning stars, and he felt dizzy and sick. "I don't know. What… when did you get here? When did I…?"

Tim's expression softened immediately. He set the lamp down on his desk, and he knelt carefully before Jason. Very carefully Tim pressed the palm of his hand to Jason's forehead, and rested it there for a few moments until Jason flinched back, blinking fast and curling into himself, his stomach cramping in discomfort. "Don't touch me," Jason hissed. Tim's eyes were big and pitying and guileless. It made Jason sick to look at him. But then, it didn't. Jason calmed, falling into a slump, and he leaned into the stars and closed his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Tim said breezily. Jason opened his eyes to stare at him incredulously. "Really. You're really cold though."

"I don't feel cold." That was a lie. He always felt cold.

Tim shrugged, and reached up, pulling the cookie he'd carried via mouth into his hands, and he snapped it in half. The sight of it made bile churn inside Jason's stomach, forcing him to avert his eyes, and his neck felt hot and sticky as he debated on the food, the tasteless scrap he was forced to consume day by day in order to keep his heart beating.

Insensibly, he accepted the treat, and he rolled it in his palm, crumbs gathering in the thin creases of his skin. He took lingering nibbles on the edges of the bread, crumbs spilling onto his tongue and turning acidic on contact. He forced himself to swallow anyway.

"So…" Tim had finished his own half forever ago, and had been watching leisurely, awkwardly, clueless as ever, as Jason barely made a dent in his own. Still, he tried. He tried very hard, and got larger bites, his mouth dry as the bread scratched painfully against his gums and tongue. "What are you doing in here, Jason?"

"I don't know."

"Oh. Okay, then." He didn't sound angry, or irritated, or even remotely irked by the fact that Jason was in his room. That was… odd. By all accounts, Tim should hate Jason's guts. But of course he didn't. Of course. Of course. Of course. Jason closed his eyes, breathing in stars and swallowing screams and chewing on ash.

"Do you like stars?" Tim asked out of the blue a few moments— no. No, it had been longer than that, Jason realized, horrified to find he was sucking on air, and he'd swallowed the biscuit Tim had shared with him. Had he… fallen asleep?

Jason shrugged, looking down at his hands, listening to the machine as it kept on its track, revolving infinitely, imprinting stars all across the room. He was unnerved by Tim, by his curiosity and his naivety and his constant need to please. But it was refreshing, maybe, because it was new. It didn't feel… awful. Jason could at least appreciate that.

"I don't know," Jason repeated, only this time, his breath hitched. Tim tensed, looking about to spring if Jason so much as let out a tiny breath of a shriek. "There… aren't a lot of stars in Gotham. I dunno."

"Light pollution and air pollution blot out the majority of them," Tim explained hastily, as if Jason cared. He found, strangely, that he was listening. "I know how you feel, growing up without ever seeing the stars. Dick's lived all over, so he saw them a lot, but… Gotham doesn't really have much natural phenomena when it's too dirty to see clearly."

"I used to have… stickers," Jason found himself blurting, uncaring, no filter, no limit. He hated it. He didn't want to speak to Tim Drake about himself. This was so _stupid_. "My mom stuck them on the ceiling, and they would… glow in the dark. I guess."

"I had those too," Tim said. And Jason looked at him sharply, surprised. The boy merely smiled and shrugged, looking sheepish and silly and stupid. But Jason was very grateful. "They kept away the monsters. I guess… some things never really change." Tim looked up at the revolving lamp, and Jason understood.

He felt a surge within him, and wave of something startling, crushing, and he couldn't look at Tim for a few minutes without flinching from the twinge of… of guilt. He'd almost destroyed the thing that kept him sane. It was a nightlight, a safety net, a comfort, and desperate necessity. And Jason had been about to shatter it with his bare fingers, to let it slice through his skin and bones and tendons. He felt sick with the culpability, knowing well that the fault was his, and it would always be his.

"I feel sick," Jason murmured. Tim looked at him, startled, and he was at his side in a moment, his hands hovering over Jason's arms.

"Do you think you can make it to the bathroom, or—?"

"Not that kind of sick, moron," Jason sighed, shrugging him off. He considered it for a moment, and frowned. "Okay, not true, I do feel a little… woozy, but I think it'll pass. I mean, like… I feel really sick. All the time. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes." _Liar_, Jason wanted to snap. _Liar, liar, liar_. "You need help. It's… kind of obvious."

"Thanks."

"I didn't—!" Tim looked horrified with himself, and Jason wanted to slap him. Why was he so frigging self-conscious? Jason was just being sarcastic. He _knew_ Tim knew what sarcasm was, he used it often enough around Dick.

"I know," Jason said. "I know."

"I'm sorry," Tim said. Jason rolled his eyes, and he clutched his knees to his chest, burying his face into them as he breathed. He felt Tim's hand on his back as he shook, a horrible earthquake grasping the room and shifting the floor beneath him. "You'll get better."

Jason let a sharp, arid laugh fall from his lips, and he raised his head so only his cheek was brushing his knees. Tim was very close, but still trying to keep himself at an arm's length— aside from the hand on his back. "Okay, birdy," Jason said in a raw voice. "Gimme a reason why you think that. What have I done that makes you think I'm gonna be… normal again?"

"You came in here," Tim said. He smiled sadly, and he looked around at the cascade of stars that floated against the air, turning it hot and bright and beautiful. "You're talking to me. That's better than nothing, right?"

Jason sighed, choking on his breath, and he felt sickness stir within him, bile clawing at his throat. He swallowed it with his screams, closing his eyes as the stars scarred his vision, imprinting themselves on the inside of his eyelids. "Maybe…"

"Plus," Tim piped, "It's not entirely impossible, is it? I mean, not more impossible than, say, coming back from the dead, or time traveling."

Jason opened his eyes, and he cocked his head quizzically at the other Robin. "Repeat that last one," Jason said, frowning as the words settled in his brain. Time travel? Really? Hypothetically, it was possible, but it was all black holes and paradoxes, and the chances of survival were like— close to none, basically. The vacuum was too sucking, too crushing, and it would kill anyone almost instantly.

"Yeah…" Tim laughed, wedging himself carefully between Jason and the desk, his back pressing against his bed. "Time travel. I met the Flash's grandkid today."

"Uh…? Are you sure it wasn't just a mentally deranged—?"

"We did a DNA test," Tim said quietly. He looked down at his hands, and he wrung them nervously, his brow creasing in a troubled manner. "And he knew my name."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"Who the hell gave him that information?" Jason found himself wondering about it, shocked and numb, but still… fascinated. A time traveler? A real time traveler. Well, the Team had a zombie, might as well collect their token mythical teammates.

"Wally, I'd guess." Tim shrugged, and Jason agreed with a short nod. Yeah, that made sense.

Jason sat, his breath shuddering when released into the air, and the lights were bathing the room in twinkling little diamonds and splashing faint little circles across Jason's skinny, shaking fingers. He looked down at his hands, at his wrists, and his arms. He was scrawny, gaunt and a waste, his bones horribly prominent beneath his white skin. All his muscle had been eaten away, and he was nothing now but skin stretched thinly across a tiny frame.

Tim was watching him, his eyes flickering worriedly, intently, and Jason bit his lip hard enough to feel the skin tear, and a trickle of blood hit his tongue. "I want to fight," Jason said suddenly.

And Tim, being the weird, patient boy that he was, tilted his head and nodded. "I can help you," he said. Jason looked at him, confused at how easily he'd relented. "I think it'll help you remember how to be…"

"Normal?"

"Alive," Tim stated, his voice small.

Yes. Because Jason was dead. It was so, so, so obvious now, to him, to Tim, to everyone, that Jason Todd was very much still in the grave. He had no life, no desires, no real vision for the future. And that scared him. He didn't want to be like this anymore, but he didn't know how to… not… and to feel again…? He wasn't sure. But he knew he'd like to feel… fulfillment again. That would be enough.

"How?" Jason asked tonelessly.

And Tim smiled wanly, looking up at the ceiling and resting his head on his bed. "Try," he said. "Please, Jay, try for us. Start with little things, don't overwhelm yourself, but… please try."

"If I do…" Jason swallowed his pride, and his guilt, and his demons, and he let his knees fall as he sat up straighter, almost… hopeful of the idea of it. "What then? No one needs me. Batman has a new Robin. No one needs me now."

"That's not true, and you know it."

There was a stretch of silence, thin and hazy, and the soft trill of the lamp dragged on and on. Jason wondered if Dick was home yet, or if he would come home at all. Nowadays it seemed as if he never slept, and he was constantly attempting to be everywhere at once, at the cave, at the manor, working Bruce's job, working Batman's job, working and trying and walking on a slip of glass above a chasm, bearing the weight of everyone, everything, above and beyond human expectations. Jason thought he might hate Dick for it. For being so strong when he was so broken. But he didn't think he was capable of that kind of hatred anymore.

"You'll help me?" Jason whispered, feeling very small and vulnerable. He despised it, though it was meager, and he could feel the stars graze his skin gingerly, whispering their thoughts on the matter. He shouldn't be pushing them away, not when he wanted to be better. Not… not… he wasn't sure, he really wasn't. The world was all a flurry of mesmerizing colors and sounds and thoughts and pains, and it tended to force him into a stupor.

"Well, yeah." Tim grinned, and he rose to his feet, looking suddenly struck by something. An idea, an epiphany, or maybe he was just happy. Jason didn't know. He didn't know the boy well enough. "Hey, wait here, okay? I want you to see something."

Tim left fast, leaving Jason alone in the room with the stars. He stood, his joints aching and rejecting the movement, crying for rest, for mobility, for exercise. But Jason would never be able to get on a normal training routine, not with his body in shambles. He'd have to start eating regularly again… and that made bile hit his tongue, so fast that he had to clap his hand over his mouth as he gagged, his shoulder smacking into a wall as he tried to fight off vertigo.

When Tim returned, Jason was clutching a rubbish bin to his chest, mortified and dizzy. "I'm okay," he croaked, his throat raw, and his mouth tasting pungent and foul. Tim very slowly pried the bin away from Jason, setting it aside. There was a bird strapped to his shoulder, glowing softly from the light of the stars. Jason blinked at it confusedly, the bold colors of its papery wings stinging his eyes.

"You didn't throw up?" Tim sounded surprised. Jason was sort of offended by it.

"No. What the hell is that?" He pointed to the bird, and Tim slung it off his shoulder, crawling up onto his bed and looked at Jason worriedly. He flicked the latch of his window, and he pried it open, a gust of frigid February air filling the room in a moment. Jason shuddered in spite of himself, and he moved carefully to the edge of the bed as Tim slipped out the window, dropping easily onto the roof below. The wind whipped at his slender body, and Tim looked back when Jason moved closer to the window, his breath sending foggy circles along the corners of the glass. He watched as Tim leaned into the wind, the bird in his hands… and then it wasn't.

Jason perched himself carefully on the windowsill, the chilly winter air nipping at his face. His hair was being tugged upward and around, twisted and matted and dark. Tim looked at him and smiled, unwinding a twinkling filament from a rod, still leaning against the wind, his feet caught precariously on the edge of the roof. _A kite_, Jason realized. _Oh. I get it_.

"Be careful," Tim called as Jason pushed himself onto the roof, his bare feet stinging against the frosted beams. The wind was too loud, and it roared inside Jason's head, crawling in his ears in sharp, icy screams. He stood beside Tim, and he craned his neck upward to search for the red bird, but he found it lost amongst the cloudy winter sky, and the string of lights that trailed across the darkness.

"Stars," Jason said, the urge to laugh nearly there, rising in his chest— or was that vomit?

Tim smiled, clutching the rod with the string full of Christmas lights, and he carefully continued to unwind them, allowing the sky to be filled with more little lights, bathed in the soft glow and twinkling through smog and pollution and clouds. Jason found the idea to be… absurd, and childish, but… all the same, it touched him.

"See?" Tim asked, his voice ringing over the onslaught of wind. "Stars in Gotham. Nothing's entirely impossible."

"They're fake," Jason said, his voice deadpan.

"Maybe," Tim replied. "But isn't it a pretty lie?"

Jason wasn't sure what Tim was trying to say. But he appreciated it, whatever it was.

* * *

Jason spent the majority of March walking on his knees. He was trying, that was obvious by the way he began to act around them. He actually came down in the mornings now, sitting at the table and eating a meager breakfast. It was usually half a slice of toasted bread and a capsule of motrin, which he washed down with coffee. Tim had allowed himself to feel a bit of pride during the first week, when both Alfred and Dick had been sort of immobilized in shock at Jason's actions.

"Whatever you did, Tim," Dick said, pulling him aside before he left for school one morning. "Thank you. I was beginning to…" Dick's eyes had grown wide with guilt, and Tim understood. He'd feared for Jason too. No, he'd been afraid _of_ Jason. Tim was more at fault, it seemed.

"I didn't do anything," Tim objected, glancing up at the manor and shaking his head. "Jason wants to be better, and he's trying. I have nothing to do with it."

Dick smiled, his eyes bright and grateful, and he laughed a little. Tim winced as Dick's hand landed on his head, ruffling his short hair between his fingers. But he smiled too, warmth spreading through his arms and legs, the sense of accomplishment too much to hold down.

"Get going," Dick laughed, shoving Tim playfully at the car door. Tim flushed, and nodded, beating away Dick's arm.

"I am, I am!" he gasped, slinging his back over his shoulder. He looked up at the sound of the manor's heavy door creaking open, and he blinked at the sight of Jason leaning in the doorway, watching with his hazy blue gaze. _He really is trying_, Tim thought, feeling a rush of pride for the former Robin. Tim smiled at him, and he waved. Dick looked confused for a moment before he spun around, looking at Jason in surprise.

Jason waved back vacantly. Dick turned back to Tim, a myriad of emotions crossing his face, and he waved as well, half running back to the manor. "I'll see you later, Tim!" he called back as Tim slid into the back seat of the limousine.

Time went quickly. The Team was odd with Impulse joining, and there was a new dynamic that they had to get used to. Tim liked Bart well enough, but the boy was strange. He found that the more time he spent with Bart Allen, the more he recognized the tell-tale signs of the act. _The_ act. The too big smiles, and the over-enthusiasm. The pretty lie. It was Jason who had allowed him to become more in tune with the sadness of others. Tim had always seen it in Dick, but… it was strange. Tim found himself comparing Garfield, who Tim knew had post-traumatic stress often enough, but always managed to give genuine happiness to everyone. Bart didn't have that natural air of assurance. Maybe if he didn't force it all on so strongly, it would seem more natural, but… Tim wasn't exactly sure. Maybe he was reading too much into it. He was probably reading way too much into it.

_It's not my business_, Tim told himself, watching Bart's bright expression flicker away into something jaded when he thought no one was looking. _It's not my place to pry_.

"Dick asked me if I wanted to go back to school," Jason stated one day, hanging around the gym as Tim practiced his agility.

"Oh, wow," Tim spun on his hands, dropping from his perch on a high beam, and looking up at Jason in wonder. "What did you say?"

"I said I'd rather it if he lodged a rusty railroad spike in my sternum and pinned me to a giant corkboard." Jason grimaced and ran his hands through his hair. "Besides, that would mean legally resurrecting me, which, let's be honest, is more trouble than it's worth."

Tim sighed, shaking his head as Jason stood up and flung himself atop the high beam, settling on the balls of his feet there. Jason had more strength left in his skinny arms than expected, and Tim had a theory that he spent the majority of his weekdays in the gym while Tim was at school, and Dick at work. At least he wasn't sitting around moping now, though. That was good. Exercise meant stability, right? As long as he was eating. Which he was. Tim was pretty sure he wasn't throwing it up, either, which was another good thing. _See! He's going to get through it. He _is_._

"I thought you wanted to be normal."

Jason glared at him, tilting himself into one hand and wheeling back onto his feet, walking easily on the thin support beam. "Yeah, normal. Like, able to eat dinner without wanting to tear out my gullet, or sleep without being afraid of waking up in my coffin, or, you know, be able to go outside? Simple stuff, Timmy, not like… like integrating myself into society again. I'm dead. I died, and now I can't go back. I just can't."

"Please don't call me—" Tim objected meekly.

"Shut up, I'll call you whatever the hell I want to call you."

_Whatever_, Tim thought sullenly. _He's called me worse, I guess_. "Um, okay, but what are you going to do… later?" Tim asked, not certain on how to phrase his question.

Jason did not answer for a few minutes, and merely did a few simple tricks on the high beam, his body bending easily, obeying his commands with little interference. He wasn't looking any healthier, not really, but it was becoming obvious that he was growing to be in better shape. It made Tim happy, because it made Dick happy, and it made Jason… tolerable.

"That's a really good question," Jason said, flipping off the high beam, landing soundlessly before Tim. "I'll get back to you on it."

"Okay." Tim nodded, following Jason out of the gym. He'd clocked in the hours he'd needed a while ago, but had mostly spent the rest of the time taking turns on the gymnast equipment with Jason. "Have you thought about what you want to call yourself when you rejoin the Team?" Jason had been very clear about not wanting to be Robin again. Very, very, very clear.

"Yeah, I'm thinking about calling myself something along the lines of _motherfucker_." Jason rubbed his eyes tiredly, and shrugged. "No, wait, sorry. Lemme throw in a color. How about the _red_ motherfucker?"

"You really haven't thought about it at all?" Tim was surprised, but only because it seemed that this was the only thing in the world keeping Jason going. How had he put so little thought into a new hero identity?

"It's not… that. Not really." Jason caught a towel that Tim had tossed his way, and he stared at it for a few moments before slinging it over his shoulder. "I just… damn it, I don't know. I really just don't know, okay?"

"I'm sorry," Tim said, his eyes widening.

"Why are you apologizing?" Jason asked. His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, sneering at Tim. "You apologize for such stupid shit, can you please just not?"

Tim looked down, embarrassed, and he dabbed at his neck and temple with his towel. "Sor—" Tim choked on the word. "I mean, yeah, okay." He could feel his neck and face flaring with heat, a little shamed by his inability to stop apologizing. It was likely incredibly annoying.

Jason glowered at him for a little while before he seemed to let it go. "Did Harper number two— or, one, I guess— wake up yet?" he asked, trying to force his voice to sound casual. It didn't really work.

"No." There were things that they told Jason, and then there were things they didn't. Dick had considered the fact that Jason had been around during the beginning of Roy Harper's great search for Roy Harper, and it was good news. "Cryogenics can be unpredictable sometimes. He'll probably wake up soon."

Jason nodded slowly, vacantly, and suddenly he was gone. It wasn't abnormal for him to drift away into a stupor, and truly? It had become sort of customary. Like perhaps Jason needed to reboot every so often, after overexerting himself on attempts to rejoin the world of the living. It was sad, but it was consistent, and so Tim couldn't do much.

When Jason woke up, he was standing in the exact same spot, and Tim was sitting on the ground a few feet away. "What are you doing down there, dipshit?"

"Nothing." Tim hopped up to his feet. The dazes were common. Tim had gotten used to them by now, but it didn't stop him from pitying Jason for it. Was it so awful that he needed to shut off his brain for a little while to process it all? Tim didn't know. "I think dinner's ready. Are you eating tonight, or…?"

That caused Jason to grimace, and he looked away from Tim, focusing his eyes on the ceiling and then the floor. "I'll try," Jason said quietly. Tim smiled at him, feeling oddly relieved. Because it was all he'd asked for.

Dick was out, either on a mission, or just working on something somewhere else. It wasn't uncommon for Tim and Jason to eat alone, but it made Tim a little sad when he realized that he saw Dick more when he hadn't lived at the manor. Bruce's absence left a huge hole in their lives, and Dick was trying so desperately to be the person who could fill the void, just so they wouldn't have to step out of their comfort zones. But by doing so, they were losing Dick too, and that scared Tim more than he could ever express.

Tim ate dinner normally, casually starting and stopping conversations with Jason, who would listen, and then disappear inside his own head. He didn't eat much, but he sat at the table, tearing at a few rolls of bread, and giving meager responses, smiles and jokes and blank stares.

"These freaks are targeting runaway kids?" Jason asked, popping a piece of bread into his mouth and chewing mechanically. He didn't seem to enjoy his food, not even bread, but he ate it anyway. Maybe because he promised Tim he would, maybe because he just wanted to be in better shape. It didn't matter, not really, because he was gaining some weight, and looking less and less like a skeleton by the day.

Tim shrugged, picking at his potatoes with the edge of his fork. "Well, yeah," he said, sighing as he wondered if it was okay to tell Jason this stuff. "Jaime— Blue Beetle, I mean— his friend got kidnapped from a bus station a little while ago, when he was running away from home. We don't know for sure, but they're a likely suspect, don't you think?"

"Wait, wait, Blue Beetle's a kid?" Jason leaned forward, his swollen eyes narrowing at Tim, who felt like he'd just dropped something very fragile. "What happened to the other guy? Ted… something?"

Tim sighed again, looking down at his food and scowling. _I'm so dumb_, he scolded mentally. _So freaking dumb_. "Ted Kord," Tim said quietly. "He… died. A few months ago. Jaime kind of ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he's Blue Beetle."

"Well," Jason said, after a minute of silence. "That sucks."

"Yeah."

Then it was quiet again, and Tim went back to eating, and Jason went back to staring blankly ahead, sort of tearing at little rolls of bread, sometimes eating, sometimes not. Tim was comfortable with the silence now, and he was used to Jason's company. It was nice, having someone his age around all the time. Jason liked being alone more often than not, but still, it surprised him how much the boy allowed himself to spend time with him.

"You have to eat more than that," Tim said, looking pointedly at the torn up rolls of bread. Jason glanced at him, and tossed a severed bit of bread onto his tongue, sticking it out at Tim for a moment before swallowing.

"No thanks, momma bear."

"I'm serious!" Tim frowned. It wasn't the worst of Jason's nicknames, but it didn't really make Tim feel too great about himself. It was then that he tried to remember if he'd seen Jason at breakfast that morning, but… "Have you eaten anything today?"

Jason merely chewed, and swallowed, and stared at the opposite wall. Tim groaned to himself, rubbing his forehead in slight irritation. "Crap," Tim mumbled. Jason did not react, but he did close his eyes. Then his head lolled, and his foggy blue eyes landed on Tim's face.

"What else do you want me to eat?" he asked. There was no emotion in his voice, just a quiet, dead tone. Tim felt guilty now for forcing this on him, but… wasn't it better that he got more nutrition?

Tim stood up, moving down the table to the centerpiece, which was a basket full of fruit. It was supposed to be bright, a sign of the approaching spring, or something. When he'd asked Dick, the older boy had laughed and said Tim paid too much to the décor. He plucked a shiny looking apple from the bunch, and he walked back to Jason, setting it down before him. The boy stared at it, and made a soft noise of disbelief that got stuck in his throat and turned to a grumble.

Jason began to fiddle with a knife, examining the tip of it, and he looked up at Tim and grinned. It was a terrible grin, half-crazed and too big, and Jason took the blade, ignoring Tim's strangled shouts, and closed his hand around it. Then, without even flinching, he sliced his palm clean open, rising to his feet and slipping past him, lazily twirling the bloody knife as crimson droplets stained the hard wooden floor.

"Jason, what—?" Tim gasped, rushing to his side. He was received with a lazy flick of Jason's bloody hand, and Tim recoiled in disgust as blood splattered across his face, hitting his tongue in a hot, bitter burst. He clapped his hand over his mouth, feeling suddenly nauseous as he stumbled back, staring wide-eyed at Jason. The boy was… painting a face on the wall. A terrifying face, just two dots and a wide smiling mouth, dripping deep red and caught in a perpetual laugh. It took Tim a little while to realize his fingernails were digging into his cheek, and he was struck with a paralyzing fear as Jason appeared beside him, holding the blade of the knife between two fingers.

"How about," Jason said cheerlessly, "if I miss this shot, I eat the apple."

Tim swallowed his fear and the blood, and he let his hands fall back to his sides. "Jay, I don't think—"

"That's your problem," Jason hissed, leaning very close. Tim said nothing, did nothing, in response to the harsh tickle of Jason's breath down his neck. "You just don't _think_, do you?"

Tim didn't know how to answer that. This wasn't a catatonic boy who would just stop when hushed and hugged and cooed. No, this was Jason, twisted and sad and starving in more ways than one. Tim could feel the blood cooling on his face as it dribbled down his cheeks and forehead, into his eyes and mouth. Tim turned away from Jason, shrugging as he looked at the opposite wall.

"You're right," Tim said. "I don't. Do what you want, then, Jason."

He walked out of the room, feeling sick and ashamed, just as he heard a raucous _shlunk_, and knew if he looked back he would see the knife protruding from the wall. Tim took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he listened to Jason swear in monotone. He felt no satisfaction when he heard the slow crunch of the apple's skin being torn away, and he rubbed his face tiredly, his muscles taut and his body screaming. _I'm so stupid_, Tim thought numbly. He pulled his hands back, and stared at the smears of blood that ran across the creases of his fingers and palms. _I'm so… so stupid…_

Things only got worse. Tim didn't speak to Jason for the rest of the night, and he found it hard to look at him. He'd cleaned up the face from the wall before Alfred could see it, and found the apple eaten to its core, but it did not matter. Nothing really mattered, did it? Tim couldn't grasp it, but he knew it, and it hurt so much… was this how Jason felt? No, it had to be even worse for him. Tim couldn't handle it. He couldn't breathe, and he felt the prickle of blood on his cheeks long after he'd scrubbed it away.

_This is my own fault. I screwed up. I'm not good with Jason, and everyone knows it, so why am I always the one to spend time with him?_ It wasn't like Tim had meant to hurt Jason. He'd been trying to _help_. But there it was, his awful curse. Tim tried so hard, but it never did any good. Helping only made things so much _worse_. _I tried to help Batman once_, Tim thought, tears stinging his eyes, and clawing at his throat. _Just once. But that was enough to get Dad killed, wasn't it? Wasn't it…?_

Tim was the one to greet Barbara at the door, the early hour not troubling him in the least. What was troubling him was the fact that Dick had not called, and was still gone from wherever he'd been all day. Barbara appeared suddenly, bowing her head to Alfred when she passed through the threshold. She looked at Tim, and her eyes were big and red and swollen. They were watery, and startling, two glistening spheres that could stab through skin and bone and reach him within an instant. And it made his heart drop.

"Dick," Tim croaked, his emotions already in too fragile a state to comprehend this. Barbara shook her head, and Tim allowed himself to breathe.

"Artemis," Barbara said. Her voice was blunt and hoarse and long since abandoned all sense of feeling.

Tim felt a darkness sweep up within him, a darkness he thought he'd buried a long time ago. And he could hear a ringing in his head, his words not quite clear as they spilled from his lips. "What happened?"

She shook her head, running her fingers through her tangled red curls. "She… came back for a mission with Nightwing, and a few others— Lagoon Boy was kidnapped—"

"Who the fuck is Lagoon Boy?"

Tim and Barbara spun around, and Tim caught the older girl's arm when she swayed a little unsteadily at the sight of Jason standing in the doorway to the foyer, his skinny face glowing gauntly in the darkness of the room he'd emerged from. He looked like a ghost. He was a ghost, truly, and they all knew it. A ghost of the boy he had been, a ghost trapped inside a body that was rotting out of neglect. Tim could feel Barbara stiffen, looking horrified.

"Jason," she said, not able to mask the tremble in her voice. "How long have you been there?"

"The entire time." He cocked his head, his eyelids sliding over glassy eyes. "Artemis is dead, isn't she?"

Barbara stared at him, and Tim felt himself sinking further into a strange despair that had not been there that morning. No, this was all wrong. Artemis wasn't on the Team anymore, she had a life with Wally, she went to college, she _left_ this life. Tim didn't even know her very well, but he felt broken apart all the same.

Jason looked between the two of them, his expression never changing. Not that he had an expression in the first place. "How?" he asked. Tim looked up at Barbara, and he saw the way she blanched, her mouth parting speechlessly. Jason's eyes flashed viciously, and he was before Barbara in only a moment, his body taut with rage. "Who did it? Stop looking at me like about to shatter, or something— _who the hell killed her_?"

"I never said anyone killed her," Barbara whispered. Tim closed his eyes, wishing he could melt away right there, and seep into the floorboards.

"You didn't have to!" Jason rolled his eyes and flung his bandaged hand into the air beside his head. "News flash, Babs! I'm kind of an expert at this sort of thing by now. It was written all over your face. Now tell me how she died. Was it… did she…?"

"No." Barbara swallowed, glancing away from Jason's face. "It was… quick. Quick enough that there was no time for Dick to…" She trailed off with a soft, breathy sob, and she shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Jason. I'm so sorry for everything."

Jason looked at her in a startled sort of disbelief, his mouth twisting in irritation. "_Why_?" he spat, taking a step back.

"Be—because…" Barbara bit her lip, and her face was flushed and her eyes were glistening, and she looked like she wanted to scream. Tim wanted to scream. So badly, it physically hurt. "We were too late to save you, too."

Tim didn't want to be in the room anymore. He didn't want to be anywhere near anyone, and he wanted to curl up in a ball on his bed and scream into a pillow until he couldn't breathe anymore, and he passed out from lack of oxygen flow. He'd done it before— once. No one had been home except Alfred, and he didn't tell anyone— or maybe he did, and Tim just didn't know about it. After Tim's father had died, there had been… some difficulties. But Tim had gotten over it. Or at least, he thought he had.

Jason watched Barbara, unflinching and gauzy-eyed. "Tell me," he said, his voice only half-biting. It was enough to make Barbara give in, and spill the thing she was trying so hard to shelter him from.

"It… it was Kaldur," Barbara said in a throaty voice.

It shouldn't have surprised Tim. After all, Aqualad was a traitor, and traitors did what traitors did. But Tim simply could not fathom what had possessed Kaldur'ahm to turn against his old friends so vehemently. Tim couldn't imagine… even if he was angry, if he hated them, if his entire world had spun upside-down… he could not imagine fighting them, killing them. No, it was simply not possible. How could Kaldur have done it? Had he truly lost his sense of humanity?

Jason's stare was lost and maybe even a little panicked. "What?" he asked flatly.

Tim breathed a quiet sigh. Jason had no idea. And that was their fault. They'd kept this from him, and now it was all going to crumble on top of them. He could barely suppress his urge to scream. "Aqualad… isn't Aqualad anymore," Tim said carefully, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. Speaking was growing difficult, and things were looking bleak. "He's a traitor."

Jason's stare only became more lost, and his cloudy blue eyes went wide. "Are you high?" he asked, his voice thin. "_Aqualad_? That bastard couldn't turn traitor if his life depended on it! Why the hell would he kill Artemis?"

"A lot has changed, Jason," Barbara said. She shook her head, wiping her eyes quickly before any tears could fall. "After you… I mean, when you were gone, a lot happened. Bad stuff. Kaldur found out Black Manta was his father, and then Tula died, and then Artemis and Wally quit—"

"Stop," Jason whispered. "Please stop."

"I'm sorry," she gasped, reaching for him. He flinched away from her touch, stumbling back into a wall and staring at her with fearful eyes. "Jason… I shouldn't have said anything. I just made everything worse…"

"No," Jason said. He shook his head profusely. "No, no… it's… I just never thought… Is this why Dick's never home? Is he leading the Team?"

Tim nodded slowly, and Jason looked away, his eyes flashing fast around the foyer. He looked very pale all of a sudden, and Tim could hear his breathing become fast and irregular. He knew what was coming next, and he acted quickly, grabbing Jason by the arm and tugging him forward. He went without complaint, nearly tripping over himself as Tim led him down a hall and into a bathroom. By the time Tim had flicked on the light, Jason was already kneeling over the toilet bowl, dry heaves catching his scrawny body and throttling it. Tim let Jason have his space, and he looked away when the boy's back arched, and the sound of his gagging ingrained itself into Tim's brain.

"What's... wrong with him?" Barbara asked after Tim held her back from Jason's side.

"He ate too much," Tim murmured. _That's my fault_. "I think he's just overwhelmed."

"Tim, I swear I didn't—!"

He shook his head, hushing her as Jason's hurling ceased, and he settled with only short gasps. "I know, don't worry about it. We should have told him a while ago. It's not your fault."

"Yes it is," she said, staring at Jason's back as he slumped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. She knelt beside him then, carefully swiping away his tears with her sleeve. He said nothing, but he did lean into her, staring at the ground impassively. "God, where is he…?" Barbara murmured, holding Jason very close as he fell asleep against her arms.

He helped Barbara move Jason to the living room, and Tim couldn't help but feel odd about it all. Jason rarely fell asleep so easily, and it was a strange occasion. Barbara was very jittery and Tim could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. Artemis had been a pretty good friend of hers, and that made things worse for her. Tim hadn't known Artemis. He couldn't be a judge. Hell, even Jason had known Artemis for a decent length of time. Tim saw her maybe once or twice a year.

Tim fell asleep on Barbara's other side, dreaming of the dead and the lost and the broken.

* * *

"You're not listening," Tim murmured, slumping in defeat. Dick was evading all of Tim's questions, and now he wasn't even considering what Tim had to say. It wasn't fair. Dick just wasn't being _fair_ anymore.

"I am," Dick said softly, never looking away from the holographic screen he was addressing. "And I get it. But I still don't think it's the best idea— you said it yourself, he's relapsing."

"Because someone he cared about died," Tim said hurriedly. "Because we kept so many secrets from him, they all built up, and caught him at the wrong moment! He was doing better!"

"And now he's not." Dick sighed and turned to face Tim, his masked eyes wide and his mouth twitching into a grimace. "I'm sorry, but I can't. He's not ready for it yet."

"You don't know that." Tim took a step closer, raising his hands to gesticulate how much he meant what he was saying. "He needs something to live for, and this is it! You can't expect him to do anything if you don't show him you care."

"He can't run before he walks, Tim," Dick said softly. He looked down, his bangs falling over his eyes, shadowing them from view. Tim could only shake his head, disbelieving and growing impatient.

"Well he's not walking or running or eating or sleeping or even _speaking_ much anymore. Maybe he needs the push." Tim watched as Dick spun away, not able to look him in the eye. That hurt more than it should have.

"I said no," Dick said, his voice very flat and very quiet. "I don't want to push him, okay? If we do, and we go too far, and he—" Dick swallowed his words, his body going very stiff. Tim had never heard him sound so conflicted. Tim couldn't see his face, and maybe that was a good thing. "He's not ready, Tim."

That sent a rush of anger coursing through him. He stared at Dick's back, doubtful and seething, and he shook his head, his fingers closing into fists. "You don't know that," Tim repeated, his voice quivering. He saw Dick's shoulders go rigid at the sound, Tim's anger rolling off his tongue in harsh words. "You couldn't know that, because you're _never with him_. How the _hell_ could you know if he was ready or not?"

The moment his words caught up with him he felt ready to throw up. He stared at Dick's back, watched his body buckle as if Tim had actually assaulted him. Then nothing. Not a word. Because Dick could not deny it, nor could he defend himself, and Tim felt so awful and guilty, he clapped his hands over his mouth, muffling a cry of fear and confusion. _I didn't mean it_, Tim wanted to cry. _I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I swear!_

Instead, he stumbled back, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. He spun around and ran, not wanting to deal with the repercussions of his words, or to get into a fight, and he felt so awful, the words still on his tongue, bitter and dry and prickly. He ran out of the room, and toward the zeta tubes… but then he stopped and retreated. He found himself wandering downward, into the grotto, numb and close to tears. He hadn't meant it. Dick knew he hadn't meant it, didn't he?

He stumbled back when he slammed into someone, and he choked back a scream as a tear loosened from his eye. "I'm sorry," he rasped, clapping his hands beneath his glasses, scrubbing at his teary eyes vainly.

"Robin…?" Conner sounded a little worried, and Tim had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself. "Are you alright?"

"No_." Nothing makes sense anymore, and I keep pretending like I feel okay but I don't, and I don't understand why, because my life is fine, everything is fine with me, I've received the least amount of trauma, but I feel like I'm going crazy anyway, and I can't even think properly anymore, so no, no, no, I'm not, I'm not okay at all!_ "I mean, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

"You don't look fine," Conner said slowly. Tim shook his head, letting his hands drop limply to his sides. The tears were gone, he'd killed them, but now he felt empty. He looked up, and saw that Conner had been standing before Artemis's hologram. It only sent a fresh pang of guilt through Tim's heart.

"I have a headache," Tim lied. He pushed past Conner, running his fingers through his closely trimmed hair, his eyes falling sadly upon the face of Jason Todd. Or, Robin, really. He looked different then, healthy and determined, an air of confidence strong enough to knock Tim to his knees.

"Hey, are you—?"

"I said I'm fine," Tim said sharply. He didn't look back, and he felt silly and stupid and shameful.

He could tell just from the chilly air that he'd struck the wrong nerve. "No you're not," Conner said, his voice dark and cutting. "I'm not stupid, okay, I have eyes. What happened to you?"

"Nothing."_ I think I just did the emotional equivalent to shoving a pair of rusty scissors into Dick's back and twisting until his spine snapped_, Tim thought grimly. "Go back to… whatever you were doing. Sorry I bothered you."

"Is it…?" Conner trailed off, and just by the sound of his voice Tim could tell where his eyes were.

"No." Tim looked down at his knees, taking a deep breath. "Well… kind of. It doesn't matter."

"Uh, yeah it does." Tim could practically hear Conner's eyes roll. "Does Nightwing know you're here?"

"Oh, yeah," Tim spat. He felt disgusting. He felt disgusting and dumb and destructive. He felt like a ticking bomb, volatile and ready to explode. "He knows."

"Shouldn't you be talking to him, then? You can't just—"

"Talked to him," Tim said dryly. "It didn't end well."

"Oh." Conner went silent, and Tim could tell he didn't know what else to say. Really, this was probably the longest conversation they'd ever had with each other. Conner liked to brood by himself a lot, and was kind of a loner. Also, Tim thought he felt uncomfortable being with the rest of the younger kids, even though he was still physically sixteen.

Conner went back to Artemis's hologram, and they were left in silence, staring at their respective dead person. Well, Jason wasn't dead anymore, but… the person the hologram was of? That boy was gone. It was obvious from looking at it. Actually, they would probably have to get rid of the hologram soon. It was another secret they were keeping from Jason, and… he might not appreciate it.

"Is he… okay?"

Conner's voice jolted Tim out of his reverie. When he looked up, the clone was standing right beside him, also looking up at the former Robin. Maybe he'd stared at Artemis too long, and wanted to look at someone who he knew was alive. Tim didn't really know what to say. Was Jason okay? Tim didn't know. Maybe. Likely not. Honestly, he was pretty bad. But how did he say that?

"Well…" Tim sighed. "No. Not really. You guys… didn't seem too close. I mean…"

Conner shrugged, his eyes flicking up and down the hologram, and he didn't seem to be especially sad. "We fought sometimes. I don't know. He wasn't the Robin I knew. I didn't like him because of it."

_Oh, god_, Tim thought frantically. _If you felt like that about Jason because he wasn't Dick, how did you feel about me replacing your dead teammate?_

"Oh." The fact that Conner was telling him this was jarring. Was it because he knew that Tim was feeling awful?

"I think…" Conner tilted his head, staring at Jason's glowing face. It was round, and youthful, and there wasn't a sign of malnutrition anywhere. It made Tim sad to look at it, but he couldn't look away. "I regret that now. I guess we took a lot of things for granted back then."

"Oh…" Tim didn't know what else to say. "Well… I doubt he cares much now." Jason didn't care about anything, really.

"It doesn't matter." Conner shook his head. "None of it matters now, I guess."

"No, that's not true," Tim said, pushing himself to his feet. "He loved the Team, and he wants to come back. Actually, that's sort of why—"

"Shh!" Conner hissed suddenly, his eyes narrowing as his head whipped to the side. He blinked for a moment, and he grabbed Tim by the arm. "Get down!"

Tim felt the cool slap of ice as it shattered against the ground beside him, and he was dragged down with Conner. He gasped when Conner was tackled, tossed clean over Tim's head and through Jason's hologram, his back connecting with the wall behind it. The entire grotto shook in response, and Tim leapt to his feet, his hand flying to his back— but he was in his civvies. His bo staff was with his belt, which was not currently in the grotto.

"Terror, move!"

Tim flipped out of the way as a shock of ice came shooting through the air, slicing through Jason's holographic chest and hitting Conner dead on. Tim watched, horrified, as Superboy was encased in the ice, and Tim was left to look around wildly, dodging the mammoth-sized Terror in question. He needed his utility belt. He really, really needed his utility belt!

Conner broke through the ice in an instant, but that instant wasn't fast enough. Tim slipped forward, trying to get between the two before the collar slipped around Conner's neck, but he was too late, and he was smacked away like a bug, flying through the air and gasping in pain. Through the shock of it, he could hear Conner shout in his own pain, a sickening _crack_ filling the silence.

"Sorry, son," the Terror sneered. "Collar's done shut off your _strength_."

Tim wobbled to his feet, flinging himself onto the bridge to avoid Icicle Junior's blast— which had been directed right at him. _How did they get in here?_ "And that's not all it can do," Junior said, smirking as he flicked a hand lazily at Tim, who'd leapt from the bridge's rail swiftly, digging through his jeans for something to use against the villains. _I wasn't supposed to be here tonight. If I was, I would have suited up_.

He heard the crackle of electricity as he landed, his eyes landing on Conner's writhing body, and he looked around wildly. But he had nothing. And there was no one to save them. Tim ducked behind Jason's hologram as Conner fell, unconscious, and he could hear the Terror cracking his knuckles.

"Don't know about you, Junior, but I'm harboring some old resentments for this boy," Terror said, his voice tilting on malicious. Tim shuddered, and he could practically feel the ice already as Junior's light footsteps came very close to Jason's hologram.

"Oh, yeah," Junior said, his voice ringing with anticipation. "But we've gotta get the other brat first. Here, birdy, birdy!"

Tim saw his face poke out from behind Jason's glowing body, and he grinned and raised his hand. Tim tugged his sweater over his hands and jumped up, leaping into the air and clapping his hands down on Junior's extended arm, using it as a spring. His legs curled around the older boy's neck, and he twisted, throwing Junior hard into the pedestal for Jason's hologram. He pushed away before impact, ducking the Terror Twin and sliding through his legs, landing beside Conner.

"Superboy, wake up," Tim hissed, grabbing him by the shirt and throttling him. He looked up and lurched away, his body aching from the last attack the Terror had unleashed on him. The ground shook where the Terror Twin had decided to stomp, and Tim looked around, fearful of leaving Conner behind, but knowing that Nightwing needed to be alerted immediately.

"Oooh, I'm going to shatter one of your limbs for that, bird boy!" Junior cried, holding his jaw in obvious pain. Tim wondered if he was serious… and the thought made him shudder. And then he felt something slide very carefully around his neck. He looked up, and his fingers flying to his throat and brushing the inhibitor collar, and he gaped for a moment at Kaldur'ahm, confused and terrified.

_How did he sneak up on me? Me, the Boy Wonder? I'm supposed to be better than this. But… I'm the worst of us all._ "There will not be any limb shattering," Kaldur barked. He added then, almost as an after thought. "It's far too messy."

Tim couldn't form any sort of witty remark, a quip of how horrible Kaldur was, because his collar sparked into life, and he felt it tearing at his neck and veins and throwing him to the ground as a scream tore from his throat, and lights glowed so bright, so hot, so lividly that they burst aflame and shattered and blinked out.

* * *

Jason was awake when Dick stumbled home, white-faced and dazed, only half aware of his surroundings. Jason watched, as he usually did, but this time it was different. He was jittery, and scared, looking as sick as Jason felt when he sat down at the kitchen table and said nothing. Alfred came in, pleasant as always, and the world tipped on its head.

"Where is Master Tim?" Alfred asked, looking down curiously at Dick as he poured the boy a cup of coffee. Dick didn't reply, but simply stared at the mug, his deep blue eyes growing dim and disquieted. He took the coffee and tipped it back against his lips, chugging half of it like it was hard liquor.

Jason felt a swell of anxiety grow inside the pit of his stomach, welling over and splashing into a maelstrom of apprehension. He stepped into the kitchen, staring at Dick with equally dim eyes, and he stood above him, feeling himself grow unstable. Dick said nothing, and did nothing, and Jason could see him trembling, scared out of his mind— something had gone horribly wrong.

"It's my fault," Dick finally croaked. He stared down at his mug and took a deep breath. "Oh, god, this is all my fault…"

"Is he…" Jason found the words to be heavy in his mouth. They felt hard and cumbersome on his tongue. "Dead?"

"No." Dick ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a shaky laugh. "Oh, god, no…"

Jason could smell soot on him. He could smell ashes and pain and a dark room, and he could taste his blood in his mouth, and hear the ring of his life ticking _down_, and _down_, and _**down**_. He could feel the heat on his skin, the shreds of shrapnel and the blank, the dark, the endless dark, and then nothing at all.

"Then where is he?" Jason asked, feeling his composure slip away like a sheet. "Why isn't he here? What happened to him? What did you _do_?"

Dick breathed, and it sounded like a scream— Jason could hear it in his head, and feel it in his heart, but it did not leave his mouth. "Aqualad and a few others… infiltrated the Cave, apprehended us all, and… took Beast Boy, Blue Beetle, Impulse, and Robin captive. I know where they are, and I'm going to get them back— they're where Lagoon Boy, and a bunch of other kidnapped kids are. It'll be fine."

Jason might have screamed if he felt anything aside from a strange swooping anxiety. "Tim's… gone?" he asked, feeling strange and apathetic. _Of course_, Jason thought. _He left me too_.

"I'm going to get him back," Dick repeated, looking Jason straight in the eye. "I swear, Jay, I won't let anything happen to him."

"You said that about me, too," Jason said. He turned away, feeling the urge to puke. Not the need, or desire. Just the strange urge to release the small amount of food gathered in his stomach. He stood in his room for a while. An hour. Or two. He didn't know. He felt empty. He didn't care. But didn't he? It was strange. And it was cold. It was cold, and the world was spinning, its axis tilting on its side, and he was sickened and freezing and tired and blind.

_Where Lagoon Boy is_, Jason thought dazedly. He shed his pajamas, tugging on a pair of very loose jeans, a baggy tee shirt, and a red sweatshirt. He tugged at the drawstrings for a few minutes thoughtfully. _Other kidnapped kids, too. Like Tim said. Runaways._

Jason didn't bother being stealthy about it. Dick would be immersed in work, too frightened and determined to notice, and Alfred would notice just a little too late. He left through the front door, slipping a pair of aviators over his eyes and strolling into the nippy March air as if he did it all the time. He didn't feel any discomfort in this, for some reason, and that made him content. Then, suddenly, he was running, and choking down screams, adrenaline pumping through him and roiling through his veins. He gasped and kept at it, running until his legs burns, running until his was choking on air, and event then he kept at it, the wind slapping viciously at his face, running its spindly fingers through his hair.

He stopped at a bus station. He didn't know how long he'd been running, but it was enough to make him collapse on the sidewalk, curling into a ball and screaming into his hands. It was too late, and the bus station was closed, but all the same… he felt that this was correct. He felt a familiar creep, a sixth sense he'd developed from his times on the street. But he just didn't care.

In the end, he'd let himself be taken away.

* * *

_It's super long, and I'm apologizing right now for any mistakes. It's super late right now, and I don't have the time to edit all of it. _

_I hope you enjoy part two! Please keep in mind that though it's an AU, Jason only changes a few events so far in season two. The send off of the JL, and the cave blowing up, which is indirect. Tim went to the Cave to talk to Dick when he wasn't supposed to, thus causing him to get kidnapped with the others. (I didn't rewatch Darkest, so I'm not sure what the requirement was for the kidnappings, but I figured they'd end up taking Tim)_

_Okay, one more part! Whoo, I wonder how long it will take me._

_Thank you so much for all the positive feedback from last chapter! I really appreciate it. =D_

_Review, please!_


	3. the blood on your lips

**stages of deterioration**

**{the blood on your lips}**

There was a split second upon awakening where Jason had felt at peace. _Am I dead again?_ He couldn't be certain, because he felt a strange buzz, pain and shock and fear— but he couldn't respond to it. He felt as though he'd been cut off from his senses and emotions, and now he was floating amongst clouds and smog and fake stars on kite lines.

When the pain stopped, he allowed himself to pry his eyes open. That had been a mistake. Of course he hadn't realized how tight of a space he was in until seeing it, because his new coffin was not very stifling at all. In fact, he could feel the tickle of oxygen as it was pumped into the small container, brushing his noise and mouth as he let out a panicked gasp.

_I died again_, Jason thought franticly, his body locking in shock and terror. _Oh my god, they did it again, they buried me, please, please, please, no! No, no, no! Nononononononononononononono nonononononono—_

He couldn't move his arms up, so he settled for banging on the sides of his coffin, tossing his head back as his eyes adjusted to the orange tinted light that streamed around him. He was close to crying, biting back screams of horror and confusion as he breathed in the stale air, his eyes flashing wildly. He saw a flicker of movement, and he realized that his coffin was not a coffin at all. It felt like one though. And he began to scream, his head snapping back, slamming hard against the walls of his prison, and he kicked and shrieked and began to cry, because he couldn't deal with this, not again, the walls were so tight against him and he couldn't breathe— but… he could…?

"This one…" he heard someone say in a muffled voice. He cocked his head, thrashing wildly, the world too small for him to operate correctly. He was so scared, he couldn't function. He couldn't think properly, and that terrified him too, because he wasn't stupid, and he was supposed to be stronger than this, but he wasn't. He was a child, and an idiot, and he was suffocating despite everything, and he couldn't stand it. "… a sedative…?"

"No," Jason gasped, his head falling forward, the cool orange glass pressing against his sweaty forehead. _I'm not buried yet, but I will be if I let them knock me out. _"Please, no!"

He saw a strange face floating above him, and through the haze Jason could tell that it… wasn't human. That made him want to scream more, scream until he was dead, because he'd be dead again soon anyway. He flinched away as something sparked, pressing against his neck and sending a jolt of electricity pulsing through him. He screamed louder, twisting in his coffin, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

_I'm going to die_, he thought. "Not again," he gasped, gritting his teeth as he fought against the pain. "I can't… not again…"

And then suddenly it all stopped, and he was so thankful, so relieved, he nearly laughed when the coffin opened and he spilled from it as gracelessly as a dead weight. He was caught by someone, or something, and he groaned as he felt restraints being slipped onto his wrists. He truly was a prisoner, wasn't he? That frightened him. The last time he'd been cuffed, it had been when the Joker—

No. He didn't want to think about it.

"Five minutes, Kaldur'ahm," a strange, accented voice said. There was a hand planted firmly on his shoulder, forcing him on his knees. "Might I inquire your… interest in this one?"

"Curiosity," replied a familiar, low voice. Jason's head snapped up, and he met the cool eyes of the man who had once led him.

"You," Jason choked, his eyes growing wild and disgusted. "_You_!"

"I see he knows you," the unkown voice said, almost amused. Jason felt himself begin to tremble, and he fought against the grip of the unknown person, a growl in his throat, and rage pumping through his veins, beating at his chest where his heart should have been.

"Hello, Robin," Kaldur said, his pale eyes narrowing in a scrutinizing way that reminded Jason sickeningly of _Batman_, which scared him. "I take it you remember me."

"I take it," Jason rasped, his throat dry and his words icy, "you've got like a hundred and twelve issues, and none of them are me, so can we just…?"

Kaldur only studied him, cold and calculating, and he _still_ somehow gave off an undying air of authority. _You were the leader_, Jason thought, sickened at the sight of him. _They trusted you to be bigger and better than them because that was your job, but look at you now. No one would have cared if I fucked up, because they never liked me much anyway. But you? Bastard, was it me who was blasted to hell and back, or you?_

Trying to rationalize Kaldur's thought process only gave Jason a headache. One that was clearly unneeded. He hung his head, a soft moan slipping his lips as a wave of vertigo hit him, tickling the edge of his vision. He gritted his teeth when Kaldur snatched his chin, his gloves catching him lightly, surprisingly, and his face was tilted upward. Jason could feel his own face reacting in his rage, a snarl rippling across his features.

"Don't _touch_ me!" Jason growled, his head snapping to the side. Kaldur's fingers slid away, and the man raised his chin, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He could feel his skin crawling, hair standing on end, and goosebumps prickling his arms beneath his hoodie. He felt dirty all of a sudden, and he couldn't bear the brush of his clothing against his skin, or the close proximity of the unknown and Kaldur. At that moment, Jason would be content with nothing more than a hot shower and bottle full of sleeping pills.

"A dead boy should not be so self-conscious," Kaldur said. There was a bluntness to his tone that made Jason want to puke. "I have not had the time to catch up with my… old friends as of late, so do explain. How are you possible?"

Jason stared at his knees, his own breath rattling in his ears, and he could feel his heart in his throat, thumping, thumping, _thumpity-thump-thump-thump_— and he tugged at his restraints, tired and sick and shocked. He was surprised to find his aviators still on… but he had a feeling Kaldur could see through them anyway, like his eerily pale gaze could cut through glass and flesh and see Jason's emotions roil inside his eyes.

He raised his head, cocking it impassively. "Ever see _Supernatural_?" he asked dryly. He knew the joke would be lost on Kaldur, who likely understood television shows as much as he understood common sense. Did he really think Jason knew how he was alive?

It seemed Kaldur did know what he was referring to, because his expression twisted in distaste. "Very funny," Kaldur said, glancing at the unknown hovering at Jason's back. "You always were, weren't you? But I do require an answer."

Jason breathed heavily, eyes flashing furiously as his felt slime crawl beneath his flesh, caressing his bones and turning to ice. He felt grit in his pores, and he wanted to scream. And he did. He jumped to his feet, his arms bound behind his back, and he leaned forward, far too short to intimidate Kaldur'ahm. But he screamed anyway, his voice a phantom whisper in the quiescent laboratory he'd managed to stumble upon.

"You don't _require_ anything!" Jason's voice was shrill, and yet he could hear it fall ghostly upon mortal ears. It echoed and cried, and he heard it in his grave, and he heard it in his head, all the time and never. "Don't tell me, you're actually _naïve_ enough to think my 'miraculous' survival might pass to Tula, or something! If you cared about her at all you'd _never_—!"

The slap stung like a knife, and it felt poisoned. His head snapped back, smacking against the glass visor of his coffin, and he blinked at the stars that flew across his vision. He went silent, because he felt the world force itself on top of him all at once, the universe colliding with his heart and his head, and he screamed again, but this time it was in mind, and only in his mind, for Kaldur had knocked Jason Todd backwards into the recesses of the broken track that was his memory and thoughts.

He stood like this, his back slumping against his coffin, and he felt tears prickling his eyes. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't deal with this ever. Aqualad had been the leader, and… Jason hadn't exactly given him the respect he deserved. He remembered harsh comments and rash decisions that nearly cost them mission after mission— but the stupid boy had never once chewed Jason out for it. No, that had always been Batman's job.

"I'm sorry," Kaldur'ahm said. Jason did not know who he was talking to. Jason didn't really know anything, did he? "I should not have done that."

"The meat upset you," observed the unknown. "I believe that is a… natural human reflex, is it not?"

"I should not have done that," Kaldur repeated, his voice quiet and emotionless. He added, his eyes never leaving Jason's face, "I hope I did not disrupt your research."

"No," said the unknown. "I do believe we are done with this one."

"Excuse me?"

"He is unresponsive." Jason could feel the unkown's touching him, and he wanted to scream and cry and thrash, but he was too far gone. He was conscious, but he was not, and it hurt on the inside and on the outside and it plagued him like a dire sickness. "We have no use for meat that is rotten."

"I see." Jason saw too. He saw Tim. He was close, close enough to that Jason could reach out, and brush his fingers against the coffin that held him— but he didn't. He was shoved back into his own coffin, which did not muffle as much as he had initially perceived. "You are planning to dispose of him."

"He is nothing," the unknown said. Jason could see her through his foggy vision and the orange glass, and she waved at his coffin casually. "There is no room for a subject if it does not respond."

"I understand your logic," Kaldur said placidly. "However, I do not believe this one has fulfilled his potential just yet. At least not to the… greater cause, as it were. I know this boy. I would like to look into the mystical nature of his current state, if possible. Since you seem so keen on disposing of him, I would gladly take the burden."

Kaldur was standing close. He was staring straight at Jason, stoic and unyielding. But still, even behind his business-like tone, there was something off. The unknown thing seemed to catch it too. "Take a prisoner?" She was almost taunting. "Why would I allow you to do that?"

"Not just a prisoner," Kaldur said levelly. "You are not very good at this game. Even I, green as I am, can see a game breaker when it appears. At the very least it will shift the grounds for me. Are you familiar with the hero called _Nightwing_?"

Adrift in his own mind, Jason stirred. He forced himself to pay attention, because anything about Dick was important. _He wants to use me to get to Dick_, Jason realized, the haze inside his head lifting like a veil_. Or get back at. He already killed Artemis. He could easily kill me too_. But then, why did Jason feel so doubtful?

"I'm aware."

Kaldur took a step away from the coffin, and his voice became distant. But Jason could still hear him. "Then you should be aware of my particular bitterness toward him. You have presented me with a piece that could cripple him. Do you think it strange that I am interested in utilizing it?"

"Your qualms with this _Nightwing_ do not interest me," the unknown said. He could hear her indifference resonating inside his coffin. "But if you want the defective specimen, take what you please."

And then they were gone. Just like that, Jason was left with his thoughts and his confusion and his discomfort. _What's worse_? he thought bitterly. _Dying again, or being used to break Dick even more than I already have?_ He remembered once when Dick had explained how often getting kidnapped happened when you're a ward of Bruce Wayne, that it was okay to be afraid as long as he kept calm and rationalized. _And you said that Bruce would always come. You said it. But he didn't come. And he's not coming now. You've always been such a great fucking liar, haven't you? If you hated me, this would be easier, but you don't. Because you don't hate anyone, and that's your epic flaw_.

Jason didn't really know how to function now. He was going to die either way. How had he gotten here? He could not recall, and it made him squirm, because he'd only just been in the manor, but now he was standing with one hand in Death's, and the other stuck between two spinning blades. _Because if one hurts me, one hurts Dick, right? That's what they want. I can't believe I'm being used like this again._

He wasn't sure how much time had passed between his encounter with Aqualad and the full resurfacing of his mind. Jason knew that escaping would be a good idea, but he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there, and he was still handcuffed, which was _super_ uncomfortable. Thankfully he wasn't being zapped anymore, so his head was clearing faster. He felt dizzy and sick though, and he remembered that Tim was in a coffin next to him. _No_, Jason swore, his body growing rigid. _I won't let him go through that too. He'll come out worse than I did._

And then suddenly his coffin was opening again, and he blinked away clouds and squinted at the face of his savior. He felt a rush of warmth, and he slumped forward, relieved and aching, into Barbara's arms. She caught him, hugging him tight to her chest.

"Oh, thank god," she breathed into his hair. His face was biting into the criss-cross of utility belts across her chest, and he couldn't even find it in him to be sickened by her touch. _It's okay if she touches me, because she would never hurt me. It's okay. It's _okay_._ "You're so stupid, you know that?"

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice muffled against her shoulder. There was a faint buzzing in his head, a gentle cacophony that gripped him and shook him. "Uh, what did I do this time, exactly?"

She shoved him away, forcing him to stumble back into somebody else. He yelped, and spun around, realizing that he was not alone at all, and there were a ton of other kids around him. He suddenly felt claustrophobic again, and he twitched against the shudder of dizziness that took root in his mind, throttling his vision. A tiny blonde girl grabbed his arm and steadied him, much to his dismay, and he glared down at her. But there was no response to it, because his dumb glasses completely ruined the effect.

"Hey, why is he cuffed and no one else is?" the girl wondered aloud. Jason tore his arm from her grasp and sneered.

"I'm a special fucking snowflake, that's why," Jason snapped, ignoring Barbara's fierce reprimand. Jason took a deep breath, wiggling his arms and turning the pain away as he stretched his muscles, wrangling all his dexterity and sinew to slip his cuffs, sliding his hands all the way down, hopping over them as simply as if they were a skipping rope. He spun around to face Barbara, who was waving at the children around them, calmly instructing them to keep together. "Babs, get these things off me before I strangle someone with them."

She gave him a sharp warning look as he thrust his splayed hands in her face, and she slipped a lock pick from one of her many utility belts. "You sound better," she observed, unlocking the cuffs with little effort. They weren't standard police cuffs— really, they seemed something else entirely, like a new brand of kink, or something. But Jason didn't really care, because Barbara Gordon could tackle anything. "You know, I can't say I missed your impatience."

"Sorry," Jason said in a flat tone. He rubbed his wrists, looking past Barbara at Tim, who was leaned against a coffin, massaging his forehead. "Hey, little shit, what the hell happened?"

Tim looked startled, and he stared at him, his mouth falling open. There were alarms ringing, the din of it all pressing up hard against the sides of his mind. He still felt sick and confused, hopelessly trying to piece together his fragmented memory. Tim didn't respond, because Barbara had shoved a utility belt into his hands, and he looked around, shocked and lost. A green boy appeared behind him, all fishy faced and bug-eyed. Jason blinked for a few moments, giving Barbara enough time to snap another belt around his chest.

"Hey, look," Jason said, his fingers brushing the pockets of the belt and trembling in relaxing in a strange assurance. "I found the star of _Piranha_. That's cool."

Tim looked up at the fishboy, who looked at Jason sharply and confusedly, as if the reference was half-lost on him. "Excuse me?" the fishboy asked, raising his head high. "Listen here—!"

"Everyone, quiet!" Barbara hissed. "Fight all you want when we're out of here, alright?"

"What's happening now?" Jason asked as Barbara shoved him forward, taking the lead and giving a quick set of orders to the group of misfit children. No one would answer him, though, because they were all so focused on getting out that it seemed they could not bother with _explaining how the fuck he'd gotten there in the first place_. He let himself fall in line with the other kids, his body swaying a little. The siren continued to wail, and Jason grasped the belt around his chest and took a few deep breaths. He blinked at Wonder Girl, stopping to tilt his head at her as she waved the children onward.

"Hey," Jason said, noting how startled she looked. "Do you know what's going on here? 'Cause I'm super lost."

"Oh! Um, well—"

"The link's down!" Superboy cried, marching past Jason, nudging him and Wonder Girl through the doorway. "I'm going in!"

Jason rolled his eyes, running his fingers through his hair as he tried to suppress the headache that was steadily growing worse. Tim was looking at him, his mouth opening slowly, as if he had something he wanted to say. But he had no chance. Superboy's pained shout rang over the deafening siren, and Jason ducked as he was flung back into the room, sailing between Barbara and Tim.

"Nailed it like a pro, Supes," Jason muttered, glancing up as a looming figure appeared in the doorway. "Oh shit, that's ugly." The looming figure appeared with a smile that reached into Jason's mind and twisted. It made him choke on his own humor, and he looked around, still not sure of his surroundings.

"Apologies, meat," the thing said, its voice gravelly and booming. It stepped toward them, its hand brushing the wall, causing a spider web effect as the room hummed. "No one goes anywhere."

All the doors folded close at once, and Jason felt the familiar grip of panic flood him. He look around, backing away from the giant thing slowly, wondering just how much help he'd be in a fight. He was weak, and he knew it, from malnutrition and shock and the subsiding ache that plagued his bones and mind. The last time he'd fought anyone, he'd gotten himself caught far too easily. And he'd died as a result.

Tim caught him by the arm, and Jason stiffened, turning his face away when he leaned forward to whisper urgently. "Don't panic." He let go of Jason when he realized how uncomfortable he was. The sirens died, and Jason's ears rung in response. "You're Robin too, okay? Just remember that."

"I'm not Robin," Jason hissed, watching as Wonder Girl tried to intimidate the huge ugly thing. "I'm not sure what I am."

"Listen, uh," Wonder Girl fumbled over her words, glancing around her, "Black Beetle! You're totally outnumbered! Open up those doors now, and we'll go easy on you."

_Is she for real?_ Jason watched curiously as said Black Beetle stared, before his grin turned feral. "You? Go easy? On me?" Jason felt sickened as the beast leaned backward, his head thrown back as well, and he laughed. It was slow, and it was deep, nothing like the shrill, erratic tone that haunted Jason's dreams. But it still resonated in his head, and he didn't know how to properly deal with it.

_Ha ha_, Jason thought, closing his eyes. _We're so fucked_.

Tim yanked him out of the way as the others began to attack. There was struggling from the very beginning, and he could hear it, hear them, as they tried their hardest. But that wasn't good enough, was it? Nothing ever was. He'd learned that. Even if you tried your hardest, losing was always an option. Jason didn't know how he had gotten here, but he knew that he was no help. Still, he found himself integrating into the dance of children who gave it their all and received nothing but bruises in response.

"A staff?" Jason said aloud. While he focused most of his energy on dodging, Tim had somehow gotten a staff to materialize out of thin air. Tim looked his way and shrugged, using the staff as if it were another appendage, throwing his body and his strength with its every curve and thrust. "Way to go, Rafiki, you just blew my mind."

Tim didn't answer right away. He seemed more focused on the fighting than the comment. But he seemed to realize eventually, because when he flew back, landing beside Jason with a pensive expression. "Did you just compare me to a baboon?" he asked slowly.

Jason shrugged in response as he flung himself out of the way as Barbara and Wonder Girl were tossed carelessly into a wall. He was keeping back, not confronting Black Beetle directly. He didn't throw any batarangs, because they would likely just bounce off the armor and hit someone, which would be bad. He remembered a time where he might have just emptied his pockets and thrown all he had into a fight— but that boy had learned his lesson, and now he was dead.

Wonder Girl ended up getting her arm twisted, which looked and sounded painful— Jason knew from experience— and she was thrown aside again. Tim looked at him and tossed the staff his way, jumping in sync with Barbara as they sent a volley of explosive batarangs and birdarangs at the breastplate of the Beetle's armor. Jason peered at the staff, twirling it in hand for a moment. _It's so light_, he realized, jumping back as the fishboy was electrocuted.

"This is dumb," Jason sighed, moving easily around the crumpled bodies of the Team. He wouldn't attack, because it was so useless. He wasn't going to land a good hit, and he'd only end up half buried in the floor if he really put himself into the fight. And he didn't want to admit that he was scared. This thing was stomping all over them, and they were… they were all better than him. So much better, and he couldn't stand it. So he stood by and watched.

Jason blinked when he saw Tim get caught in the fire, and he lurched forward, something akin to panic and concern bubbling within him when Tim was pinned to the wall. He jumped beside him, grabbing him by the sleeve and shaking him. "Hey, asshole, get up," he hissed. But he didn't. That scared him too. But he didn't have the time to check Tim for injuries, because Black Beetle seemed to deem Jason as a threat. He gasped, his shoulder slamming into the wall as something blasted him hard in the chest, setting the world on its head. Nausea stirred in his stomach, and he slumped beside Tim, gritting his teeth as he tried to jostle the… the _staple-thingy_ from the wall.

_Wake up_, Jason thought in vain. _Wake up!_

"Tim," Jason whispered, wedging the staff between Tim's body and the black restraint. "Hey, baby bird, come on, don't do this to me, you still have to explain what's going on."

"Ja— Rob— ugh! Hoodie, move!" Barbara cried, swooping before him and tackling him out of the way. The staff was left discarded with Tim's body, and Jason found himself staring as a beam of energy collided with the wall where he'd been a few moments earlier.

"Hoodie?" Jason asked vacantly. Barbara dragged him to his feet, rolling her eyes and grabbing him by the hood of his dark red sweatshirt, twisting him once again out of danger's path.

"You didn't exactly give me a lot to work with," she hissed, pushing him toward a civilian. "If you're not going to fight, please be careful, ok—?"

Jason pulled her down, another round of staples, rushing toward them, and he tugged his hood over his head, glancing up at Black Beetle. _Come on_, he thought. _Weak spots. Everything has a weak spot._ He tried to call up his long buried memories of training with Batman, the constant pressure of picking at little details and memorizing them. Barbara had always had it easy when they'd both been in training, because she had photographic memory. Jason had struggled with it all, while she and Dick were the prodigal children. It made sense that they were often allowed to run off on their own, while Jason continuously disappointed Batman to the point where he had once ordered Dick to supervise him on a Team mission when Dick had taken the night off to study for final exams with Barbara.

He shook his head and continued to think as he dove away, careful of the bodies that littered the floor. _This is a bloodbath without the blood_. He was grateful to still be conscious, but now Black Beetle had time to pick which person to target. Him, Babs, or Wonder Girl. And he was running out of stamina fast. He ducked and sprung and flipped, watching Barbara take on some woman who looked as if she'd stepped out of a poorly funded all-girls group from the 90's. He kind of wanted her to take the Beetle so he could taunt the bitch relentlessly for her fashion sense, but he was too busy dodging to really get out what he wanted to say.

When Black Beetle focused more on Wonder Girl than Jason, he was unbelievably relieved. He caught his breath and dug through his pouches, searching for something he could use against the armored beast. He pulled out a batarang, before he looked up at Black Beetle, a little troubled by the idea that had struck him. He saw Wonder Girl up against a door, and he looked down at the batarang, feeling ill.

"What did you do to her?" gasped Wonder Girl, and Jason looked up to see that M'gann had halfway phased through the door— only to be trapped now, unconscious. Jason tugged his hood farther over his head, allowing it to shadow his eyes and aviators. The world seemed to slow as the idea became less and less cruel, and Jason pondered on it. _Batman would never do it_, Jason thought glumly. _And it might not work, or get me killed. _

"Shifted the density of the door," Black Beetle said. "Wasn't quite prepared for that, was she?"

Jason looked back at Barbara, who was still fighting the face-tattoo lady, and then to Tim, who was still stapled to a fucking wall. Jason was pissed at that, mostly because it was so stupid, and he wanted to slap Tim for being stupid enough _to get stapled to a wall, the fucking dumbass_.

"But don't be jealous. I can put you halfway through the door too. Halfway, the _hard_ way."

Jason nearly dropped the batarang in shock, the tone too familiar, too much for much for him to take for a moment— the sounds of Wonder Girl's strangled shouts didn't help, and the pounding of her back against the door. Jason swallowed a lump in his throat, his fingers slicing against the batarang.

_Forehand?_

_**SLAM.**_

Jason tugged his sleeves down over his hand, stumbling forward numbly.

_Or backhand?_

_**SLAM.**_

_The thing is_, Jason thought, _I'm not Batman. And this piece of shit deserves it._

_A?_

_**SLAM.**_

Jason was silent, and right behind Black Beetle. He was a ghost. He could not possibly be heard.

_Or B?_

_**SLAM.**_

He leapt, and his free hand catching Black Beetle by the prongs on his back, and he listened to Wonder Girl's soft cries of pain. _I sounded like that too._

_A little louder lamb chop!_

Jason gritted his teeth as Wonder Girl slumped, and Black Beetle almost immediately responded. Almost.

_I think you have a collapsed lung!_

Jason gripped Black Beetle around his beefy neck, and he jerked the beast's head back, moving faster than he ever had before, his hand coming down in a blur of red and white and black. He saw Wonder Girl look up, twitching in pain, but still awake— and she screamed just as Black Beetle decided to send a wave of electricity flooding through him. Jason's teeth clenched so hard, he felt as though they would shatter as pain jolted through him fast and hard, but he didn't care.

_I'm not Batman_, Jason thought. And he grinned, or perhaps grimaced, through the pain and the shock, and the tip of his batarang shattered the glass screening Black Beetle's right eye, and he heard him scream through the pain as the electricity flooded through him, using Jason as a conduit as it sparked and sizzled around his fingertips, shooting through his batarang and into the bloody socket of Black Beetle's eye.

He didn't really know how long they were both convulsing, but it felt a little like forever, which was funny. It was so fucking funny. When he let go, he was laughing feebly, and he stopped when he realized. He felt sick. And he couldn't move. He blinked slowly when he realized that Black Beetle had recovered, and was now looking— with one eye, Jason realized with satisfaction— about ready to murder. And Jason didn't doubt he could do it.

But something distracted him. _No_, Jason realized, groaning and dragging his limp arm into his lap. _Someone_. _That's Blue Beetle_. Jason watched as the boy opened the doors shakily, his body jerky and weak. He looked as Jason felt. That reassured him, somehow, as he hissed, dragging back his singed sleeve to get a look at the mottled, bubbling skin of his right hand. He could smell it, the roasted flesh and the burns, and it made him sick because once… once his entire body must have smelled like this.

Barbara was at his side suddenly, hushing him as his limbs jerked, and his stuttered, blinking in shock. "B-Ba—" he choked, as she examined his hand. "Ba-Babs…"

"It's okay," she whispered. "You did okay."

"Ba-Batman—" His teeth cracked against each other. "W-wou-wouldn't th— think so— he— he'd—"

"Shut up." She held him steady as he trembled, staring at his hand in awe and disgust. "That doesn't matter. Listen— look at me! I said it doesn't matter, and it doesn't. How badly does your hand hurt?"

"Only a little," he said. And it was true. The pain was distant and hazy.

"And… the rest of you?" Barbara asked hesitantly, hastily shielding Jason's body with her own as Black Beetle and Blue Beetle clashed. Luckily nothing hit them. "I need to move you, but I can't have you freaking out."

"I can walk," he murmured, gripping her arm with his uninjured hand. "Just… give me a sec, 'kay?"

"We don't have a second," she hissed, cupping something delicately in her left hand. Jason saw that it was an unconscious Bumblebee, and he swallowed whatever pride he had left, carefully wrapping his arms around her neck. She obviously misjudged his weight, because he bounced easily from the floor, and she gasped, straightening up in surprise. She quickly moved out of the firing range as Blue and Black Beetle continued their fight, though she seemed troubled. "My god, I've got make up bags heavier than you!"

"Mm," he mumbled into her back, his legs hooked around her elbows. He was grateful for her, though. "Hey… is Tim—?"

"He's fine. No names on the field, little red," she teased.

"Little red?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "Call me that again, Barbie, I _dare_ you."

He felt her shoulders slump in relief. "I'm glad you're okay enough to make threats, and call me gross names," Barbara said quietly. "How about Red Riding Hood?"

"I am really close to just going back and letting the Beetleborg tear my throat out. Thanks very much." He closed his eyes as Barbara stopped, her hair tickling his cheek.

"Hold up," she gasped. Jason glanced upward to see why she'd stopped, but quickly turned away in shame when he saw it was Dick. _Asshole_, Jason thought glumly. "Blue's keeping Black busy. Impulse, Beast Boy, and I will drag everyone else into the bio-ship's hold. Once we're in, you need to be at the helm, ready to make a fast exit."

"Right…" Dick said, taking Bumblebee gently. "I'll take Ja— him as well."

"I can walk," Jason spat, not entirely sure if he was angry at Dick, or at himself. Except Jason couldn't really feel most of his body, so it was a lie. A horrible lie, and Dick saw right through it.

"Robin…" Dick said carefully, once Barbara had shifted Jason to his back. "Is he…?"

"He's fine," Barbara sighed, looking up at Dick with tired eyes. _She hasn't slept in awhile,_ Jason realized, wondering if that was his fault. "I'll make sure I'm the one to get him out, okay?"

Dick studied her face for a moment, and Jason groaned to himself. He wanted to tell them that they were morons, and they would always be morons, but he didn't because he wasn't in the mood to tease them. "Right," Dick repeated. "Execute."

Barbara didn't need to be told twice. She was gone faster than she'd come, and Jason was left to hang limply from Dick's back. "You okay, Jay?" Dick whispered as he moved quickly back to the bio-ship.

"I can't feel…" _Anything_. "Like, eighty percent of my body. But yeah, I'm pretty cool besides that, how about you?"

"What happened?" Dick asked, his voice strangely devoid of emotion. It was creepy, and Jason didn't like the sound of it at all. He didn't sound like the Dick Grayson he knew. But then, could he say he really knew Dick Grayson anymore? "Tell me exactly what they did to you."

"It wasn't… them, exactly." Jason's legs began to spasm when Dick set him down inside the bio-ship, and he stared at them in horror. Dick looked equally horrified, setting Bumblebee carefully on an armrest before bending beside Jason and letting his hands hover over his trembling shoulders. "It wa— was my fault. Yeah. My fault."

"Why did you leave?" Dick whispered, sounding small and childlike. Jason looked up at him, not sure how to respond, because he had no idea what he was referring to. In all honesty, he'd expected a rebuking or something, as if Dick would try and emulate Bruce even more. "No, I'm sorry, never mind. I know why you left, I just… I wish I'd…"

"What did I le-leave, exactly…?"

Dick looked at him, his mouth falling open. Jason knew how his eyes would look if they were visible. Shocked and sad and pitying. That was how they always were, when they were not dim and dark and dying. He didn't answer, and instead took Jason's hand, pushing away the burnt fabric of his sleeve, his lips twisting in horror as it stuck to his charred skin.

"Oh…" Dick murmured, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. He looked very pale suddenly, and Jason could tell how sickened he was by the way he pressed his lips together, suppressing a gag. The skin of his palm was raised and ruddy, bubbled and charred and sticky with a thin liquid that was oozing from the burns.

"Hey… c'mon, Dickie-bird, it's not that ba— _bad_…" Jason noted how Dick's expression changed, jolting in shock at the nickname. Their time living together before Jason's death had been full of harsh words and bitter fights that would sometimes last for days. But, equally, they had their good times as well, when Dick covered for him at school, bailing him out of numerous detentions, giving him acrobatic tips, always in the mood to watch a dumb B movie, even if it was the middle of the night. Jason had… forgotten how grateful he'd once been to have someone like him around. _He cares too much_, Jason thought sadly. _He always has_.

"We'll patch it up later," Dick swore, rising to his feet as Barbara came rushing in, Tim unconscious across her back, and Wonder Girl in her arms. Behind her was Beast Boy, or, rather, a green gorilla, hefting Lagoon Boy and Superboy in two arms, and a blur that Jason could only assume was the Flash's mysterious grandson. When Jason looked around, he saw that all the kids he'd escaped with were watching him. He knew he should have been embarrassed about that, but all he really felt was regret for slipping up on Dick's name.

"'Sup?" he asked, his throat raw as he jerked his chin at the civilian who'd been trapped with them with Black Beetle. The dark skinned boy narrowed his eyes for a moment, probably wary from the memory of Jason stabbing the fucker in the eye. But then, it seemed he was deemed safe, because the boy mimicked him.

"Is an explanation too much to ask?" the boy sighed, running his fingers through dark dreadlocks. Jason grimaced, shifting his legs in minimal pain as he began to regain the feeling of them.

"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Still waiting on one my— my— ugh," he hissed through his tremors, "_myself_." He looked down at Tim once Barbara set him down beside him, and he felt a strange sense of relief. He didn't know why, exactly, but he was grateful for it. He was grateful for a lot. But the feelings were fading slowly, and he groaned, burying his head in his hands as his ears began to ring.

"Are you guys all… related?"

Jason jerked, not entirely certain of where time had gone. He was still in the bio-ship, and Tim was still beside him, but now Dick was far away, discussing something with Barbara. He looked up to see the blonde girl he'd snapped at earlier, standing nervously before him. All of the kids looked nervous, now that he bothered to look. The pain from being electrocuted— truly electrocuted, not just small shocks— had subsided to a dull throbbing, and he could move his limbs freely now.

"Uh…" He didn't know exactly what he was supposed to say. Speaking civil to strangers was hard. He wished he could just not speak at all, because that would be easier. "What?"

The girl was younger than he thought she was. She shifted on her feet, her eyes moving between Jason, and Tim, and Dick— who was at the controls, ready to move. She was actually a cute little thing, now that he looked at her properly, without all the panic and the muddled thoughts. Sorta doe-eyed and round-faced, with flaxen hair and an anxious expression. Yeah, she was pretty cute. It was odd.

_When was the last time I thought anyone was cute?_ he wondered. He could not recall. His utter disinterest in life had prevented him from thinking such things, but now that it struck him… yes, this girl was cute, and so was Wonder Girl, now that he thought about it. It was all a weird sort of revelation that, oh yeah, cute girls still existed. How fucked up was that?

"You," said the girl, "and him, and that guy over there. Are you—?"

"Yeah," Jason said. He looked away from her as water filled the bio-ship, and he blinked confusedly, grabbing Tim by the sleeve and pulling him upright. The waves had lapped at his face, drifting him away for a few moments before Jason managed to reel him back. He hissed through his teeth, cringing as the saltwater licked at his burn, seeping through the bubbling skin and searing at the open wounds. The water was icy, and it hurt, in an old and familiar sort of way. Like the depths were calling to him, all cold and dark and crushing. He knew it. He recalled. And part of him, a sick and sad and twisted part, wished to go back. To let the water crush him, and drag him with its vice grip, and slither its icy tendrils down his throat until it filled his lungs to the brim with frost and brine and despair.

"Help," he choked as Tim slipped his grasp. He panicked, his body immobile in the shock of the icy water. He shook, and he reached, and he saw the boy begin to stir, his head bobbing as the blonde girl hurried and scooped him from the flood. Jason shuddered in relief, feeling sick as he coughed the bitter seawater, and attempted to stand on his own.

"Everyone's aboard except Blue!" Barbara shouted over the din of rushing water. Tim sat up, his fingers catching the girl's sweater as he groaned, his mouth twisting into a pained grimace. There was a brief flicker of relief within Jason as the boy looked up at him and smiled weakly. The water around them sloshed and churned as Impulse charged ahead, carelessly smacking into another wave of heavy seawater as it slipped through the gaping door like a flume, white capped and sputtering.

Jason watched apathetically as Impulse drifted back inside, a small, bobbing body amongst the foam. Beast Boy was quick to grab him and flip him over so the boy wouldn't drown, and Jason pressed his searing hand to his chest, blinking at Tim. The girl had let him go, and was now on her feet in shock as the deluge came gushing in, lapping at her knees and licking Jason's elbows.

"Nightwing, seal the hatch! Docking bay is flooding our hold!"

"Acknowledged!"

"What's…?" Tim whispered, struggling to stay upright against the charge of frigid waves. Jason took him by the arm as he began to sway, and he pulled him closer to keep him from toppling face-down into the depths.

Beast Boy was only a few feet away, and he hugged Impulse's shuddering body as the water rose around them. "But Blue—!" he objected, his voice cracking miserably.

Barbara turned on him, straightening up and taking on a low tone. "We can't help him if we drown," she said briskly, "or get crushed by the pressure at this depth!"

The water kept coming, harsh and cold and inundating the entire ship with biting pressure and spitting foam. Tim was buckling against the current, even with Jason holding him tightly by the arm, and it prompted a glance toward Nightwing. There were so many people aboard, it was hard to tell exactly who Nightwing was looking at, if he was looking at anyone at all. He seemed to be focused on nothing but his mission, his jaw set and locked tight, and his fingers hovering over the glowing orbs that commanded the bio-ship. _Is he always like this on missions now?_ Jason wondered, feeling inadequate as he pulled Tim very close, his own body overtaken by trembles. _He's the leader. He really is, and he's… good at it._

Jason didn't know how he felt about that.

The door was sealed, and the water dispersed, leaving Jason and Tim to very nearly collapse onto each other in exhaustion. Tim was shaky and clammy, looking a little sick from the cold and the shock and the confusion. Jason could hear him choking down coughs, his breath raspy and shallow against his shoulder. The bio-ship was eerily quiet then, nothing to be heard but soft gasps and the groans of team members who were only just awaking.

"Are you okay?" Tim asked, his voice hoarse and quivering. Jason stared at him in disbelief, not certain on how to respond. The bio-ship had become warmer after draining the water, but Jason still felt the chill, and his body was rejecting it all. But still, Tim was worse off, with visible signs of trauma and probably some sort of illness catching him. Perhaps he'd been subjected to more than just shocks. Tim looked troubled when Jason did not answer, and he raised his head, gripping his shoulder very tightly. "Hey…?"

"I'm fine," Jason said, brushing Tim's fingers from his shoulder as if they were something foul. "You're the one who got their ass whooped by an alien creepy-crawly, little bird, not me."

Tim's mouth dropped open, and he flinched, looking just about ready to crawl into himself and disappear forever. _Oh my god_, Jason thought, panic-stricken_, how does Bruce criticize him, if he reacts like this to failure?_ "That's not a bad thing," Jason said quickly, feeling the strange need to fix his mistake. Tim bowed his head and said nothing. "I mean, hey, at least you didn't die."

"You're not very good at encouragement," Tim sighed. He smiled a little though, as if the attempt was enough for him. For some inexplicable reason, that was touching. "But, yeah, I guess you're right. Next time I screw up, I'll be sure to remember that, _hey_, at least I'm not you."

"Damn straight," Jason said. He kept his voice low as the floor opened, and Lagoon Boy popped up in a giant bubble, spilling across the floor with Blue Beetle clutched in his long green arms. "I'm glad to be the earthshatterer on the fuck up Richter scale, so long as it boosts the miniscule self-esteem of small children such as yourself."

"We're the same age—"

"Shhhh." Jason closed his eyes and pressed a finger to Tim's lips, raising his head up high. "Don't ruin it, birdy, I'm feelin' too good right now. You're like, nine, shut up."

"Okay."

They were joined by the blonde girl after that. Barbara was still speaking to Nightwing, her tone hushed enough that Jason could not hear them conversing at all. He merely saw Barbara's head bent near Dick's ear, and the thin line of Dick's lips growing thinner and thinner. Jason found he didn't care what they were talking about. _Hey_, he thought, tugging idly at the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. _Maybe it's dirty_. He doubted it, but it might have been funny to tease them about it. He might have, if it had been three years previous, back when he had felt the prolonged need to tease Dick and Barbara for their… whatever it was they were.

"So you're _the_ Robin," the girl clarified, looking awestruck. Jason was sort of ignoring her, more focused with the strange sinking feeling as the adrenaline high, as well as the buzz from being electrocuted, faded away into an obscure mush of thoughts and feelings that could not be reached.

"Um…" Tim didn't seem to know how to talk to girls. It was actually pretty hilarious, but Jason was too focused on holding onto the rush of _feeling_ to really care. "Yeah…"

"That's awesome!" She looked excited, bright-eyed and amazed, and she clasped her fingers in front of her, bobbing her head gleefully. "So this is… like, a miniature version of the Justice League?"

"Child soldiers," Jason reported in a dull voice. "The Justice League's finest."

"What he means," Tim said quickly, seeing the girl's confused face, "is yeah, but… it's really covert, for our own protection. So don't tell anyone."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, "like anyone would even believe me. This is all pretty ridiculous. And awesome. Hey, if I asked you to do me a super big favor, would you do it?"

"W-what?" Tim looked taken aback, and Jason sighed. Oh, he was completely hopeless. "Um… well, you see… I probably wouldn't be able to— to do anything really, without Nightwing's permission—"

"Then I'll ask him," she said, rising to her feet.

"Sit your ass back down," Jason said phlegmatically, "uh, whatever your name is."

She scowled at him folding her arms across her chest. "It's Stephanie," she said, raising her chin defiantly at him, "whatever _your_ name is."

Tim turned to look at him, his mouth parting to answer for him. Jason continued to tug on the drawstrings of his hoodie, and he frowned to himself. "Red Hood," he said, his eyes drifting to Barbara. "You can call me that."

Tim looked surprised, and extremely apprehensive. Jason knew why. He sort of hated the name, if he were to be honest. But he hated himself too. So it fit, right? _If this is hell_, Jason thought, his eyes sliding closed behind his aviators. _Then I should be a demon_.

"That's lame," Stephanie declared. She blinked for a moment, and frowned, giving him a double take. "Hey, that's a _villain name_!"

"And now it's not. I claim it as pure and holy. I'll have the pope bless it at gunpoint, if that makes you more comfortable."

She stared at him, her mouth falling open, and her eyes swiveling to Tim. It wasn't a shocked expression, it was more just incredulous and irritated. "Is this guy for real?" Stephanie asked, jerking a thumb at him. Jason rolled his eyes, sliding the drawstrings of his hood up and down, enjoying the mundane activity of tightening and loosening the sack on his head.

"Um," Tim said, sounding uncertain. "Unfortunately, yes. Except he won't actually do that to the pope. I… I don't think so, anyway."

"You have so much faith in me," Jason stated. He pressed a hand to his heart, his voice mocking. "It really, really gets me, baby bird. Right here. I mean, golly gosh, you might send me into cardiac arrest with all these _feelings_. Please, do me a fucking favor and cremate me this time."

"This time?" Stephanie repeated, watching him curiously.

"Babe, let me tell you something." Jason leaned forward, sticking a finger between her eyes. "If you ever have the misfortune to realize when you're going to die, make sure it lasts, because trust me, life sucks the first time around, but the second time is like being fucked by Satan's—"

"I think that's enough." Jason reacted to Dick's voice as he would have if it had been Batman behind him. He shut his mouth and went rigid, his entire body snapping at attention. _Oh god_, he thought, _I _am_ a child soldier_. "I'm sorry for the trouble. We'll have you back to Star in no time."

Stephanie looked confused for a moment, her mouth falling open. She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear, and she bit her lip. "Uh, actually," she said, looking suddenly very small. "I'm from Gotham."

That was news to Jason. But then, it explained why she'd been so fangirly over the concept of meeting Robin, and also how she knew that Red Hood was a villain name. Actually, Jason sort of admired her spirit. She was taking the entire situation in a stride for the most part.

"That," said Dick, "is strange. How did you get to Star City from Gotham?"

"Uh, bus?"

"You're a runaway," Tim observed.

"No shit, Sherlock. Wait, wait, guess her favorite color now! Oh, wait, I've got it, it's purple." Jason was getting tired of his own snide comments, but for some reason, he could stop them. He was okay with that, though. It made him feel… better.

Stephanie looked at him, and she grinned broadly. "Hey, your hood guy is a really great detective, can he track down the DS I lost like, two summers ago?"

"I'm not St. Anthony, blondie."

"Yeah, well, if you _did_ threaten the pope at gunpoint—"

"Please stop," Tim sighed, burying his face in his hands. "Please."

"Aw," Jason spat, swatting Tim gently over the head. "You're so easy to bother. It's actually really pathetic."

"Cute, huh?" Barbara piped up from behind Nightwing. "Like a bunch of kindergarteners."

"You know," Nightwing said, looking a little amused. But Jason knew he'd come to speak to them in private, and the runaway girl was in the way of that. "I don't think we gave Batman enough credit when we were younger."

"We still don't give him enough credit," Barbara sighed. She turned to look at Stephanie, and she smiled gently. "Can I pull you away for a few minutes, Stephanie? I just need to ask you a few questions."

"You're Batgirl, right?" Stephanie asked, looking eager. "Dude, you can take me to prom too, if you want, I'm not really picky."

"That's…" Barbara's eyebrows furrowed as Dick turned his face away to hide his smirk. "Flattering. Why don't we settle on a cover story to tell the police and your parents first?"

That made Stephanie grimace. Jason knew the feeling, and he watched her shuffle away at Barbara's side, looking irritated and dejected. That left Jason with Tim, who had not recovered a single bit— in fact, he seemed to look even worse since Dick's appearance. He'd grown pale, his hands covering his nose and mouth, leaving little of his face visible. Nightwing bent down before them (they'd decided to stay on the floor, for some reason— perhaps they just felt more comfortable with each other that way), and he looked sad, the weight of everything bearing on the older boy's face. He looked old.

"So…" Dick said quietly. "You two are getting along well. That's… that's really good."

Jason stared at him blankly. Tim let his hands slide into his lap, but he did not look up. The silence was filled by soft chatter, small talk between the abductees and team members, and other things like muffled laughter and a steadying start to a lighter mood. While everyone else's spirits were lifted, Jason's sank deeper into the darkness. He missed the high. And realizing it made him want to scream.

"Look," Dick whispered when they did not answer. "I know… I'm not your favorite person right now, either of you. But—"

"I'm so sorry," Tim gasped. Jason looked at him, rolled his eyes, and looked away. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, and I'm sorry I said… that stuff. I didn't mean it, I swear!"

"No." Dick shook his head. "No, you were right. About all of it. I'm the one who needs to be apologizing— I've been so caught up in— in all of _this_, that I… I forgot that you two need me just as much as the rest of the world does. That was something Batman figured out when I was ten. I… I was being unfair to you— _both_ of you, and I'm sorry for that."

"He yelled at you?" Jason asked curiously. He wished he'd seen that. Tim nodded slowly, looking away and pouting shamefully. "Hardcore. Did you swear? Tell me you dropped like, at least one dick joke, come on."

"Um, no."

"Wow, you suck."

"I need to apologize to you too," Dick said, looking at Jason with a sad smile. His voice was very soft and grim, and the way he held himself was strangely dejected. Jason had no idea how to respond to this. He didn't need Dick's apology. The way things were now… he was at a constant battle with himself, and he did not need Dick's inconsistencies too. Jason would rather be alone than be given more empty promises. "I know things have been hard, and I should be more attentive to that. This entire situation proves how badly I've… I've been treating you both. This wouldn't have happened to either of you if I had just listened."

Jason looked at Tim, but he was surprised to find that the boy was not objecting. He merely frowned, and stayed silent, an inscrutable emotion passing his features_. Ah_, Jason realized_. It's so sad when your heroes let you down, isn't it, Tim?_ But Jason didn't say it. Because it was too mean, too much, and he didn't want to ruin them any more than he had already. Was that so wrong? He'd done so much damage in so little time, and he had barely fixed his own issues.

Dick watched them, and the silence stretched on. He sighed, and he shook his head, looking somber. "I've made a lot of mistakes, but I don't want that to… to change the way you two see me, or change our relationship. You guys are my brothers, and what happened here… I'm taking responsibility for it."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Jason growled. "Like, what? You're gonna tell Batman you tossed us into a couple coffins and watched us sail into the alien abduction area?"

"It was my fault that I was captured," Tim insisted immediately. "I was going to go home— I wasn't even supposed to be at the Cave— and then I decided not to, because I thought… I mean, I was being stupid. So it's really my fault."

"You're ridiculous," Jason groaned, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Play the blame game all you want, but you both are way too self-righteous to let the other take it, so just shut up about it."

The smile on Dick's face seemed out of place and too tight, but it was genuine all the same. He leaned forward, brushing Jason's hood back, and ruffling the dark, matted hair beneath it. Jason nearly choked on his own pride as he ducked away, his eyes flashing furiously. The aviators hid it well, apparently, because Dick merely laughed quietly.

"You're going to gain five pounds, got it?" Dick said, his expression playful, but his voice serious. Jason made a face, and Dick shook his head fast. "Don't make faces, okay, I'm just being realistic. You can't fight properly or regain any of the muscle mass you lost if you don't get the nutrition you need."

"I think I did pretty good," Jason grumbled, looking down at his hand. Well, pretty good wasn't exactly Bat-standard, and he'd been too rash and violent anyway. In all honesty, he failed.

"You did pretty good," Dick agreed. That surprised him. Jason could not fathom it for a moment. It was one thing that Jason thought he did pretty good by stabbing the enemy— but Dick? "But I can't put you out in the field unless you hit a hundred pounds. Sound fair?"

"You're putting him out in the field?" Tim asked, his mouth dropping open. "Wait, I thought—!"

"I know," Dick said in a small voice. "I was wrong. He needed the push."

There was something odd about his tone. Something thin and awed and regretful. Jason didn't understand. The fact remained that he had no idea how he'd gotten in this situation, and that frightened him. He was stuck trying to solve a puzzle, and dig himself out of his sinking spirits. He liked feeling light, and feeling the world fall away, as if his problems were— were just that. As if he could just brush aside his despondency as if it were a flake of snow. But no, it was not possible. It crept back upon him like a shadow, slipping itself between his ribs and squeezing inside his heart, gnawing at the emotions and blasting its way through his thoughts and senses. The darkness became tangible. And he became nothing.

_But_, Jason reasoned, staring into the darkness and shrinking back. _But they believe in me, don't they?_

_No_, the darkness whispered. _You are nothing but an empty shell._

And Jason found himself locked in his inner turmoil, the darkness stirring old memories, drawn out and blazing. _No, that's not true_, he argued. _I'm not empty. I can feel things, I know I can, it's just… hard. _

_You're rotten. _

The languor of Jason's life seemed to catch up with him then. Was it true? He… he wasn't certain of who he was anymore. Jason Todd was dead. Robin was Tim Drake. Who was he, if not either of those? Red Hood had been a spur of the moment idea— a sickening one, really. But truthfully, just imagining the Joker's reaction— taking his old alias for his own and turning it into something… else. Something better. But still, the fact remained that the title was tainted. And so was he.

* * *

Tim picked at his breakfast nervously, his thoughts fluttering between Dick's behavior and the upcoming therapy session. Dick was trying— that had become apparent with his offers to drive Tim to school, and the promises to be home at a decent hour (he pulled through so far, but Tim doubted it would last). Jason was talking more and more, though Tim wasn't sure exactly if he liked it. Jason's nature seemed to be… very brash. He spoke harshly, but he often forgot himself, and apologized.

It was odd. But it was welcome all the same, and Tim was glad to find that Jason seemed to be coming into himself more. Sometimes when Tim looked at him, he didn't look dead. But… still, the mist never quite left his eyes, and there was a perpetually haunted look that the boy's pale face took on. He still had dark circles under his eyes, and he still had nightmares. Tim knew because he listened. When Jason managed to sleep, one could always tell by the soft whimpers and thrashing that pervaded the hall.

"Good morning, Master Jason," Alfred said as Jason plopped down beside Tim. It sometimes struck Tim as odd that Jason decided not to keep his distance when at the table, but he never objected. If he could stand the proximity, who was Tim to complain?

Jason's cloudy blue eyes flickered up to Alfred's face as he set a plate before him. He nodded wordlessly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked at Tim he scowled, and gave him a sharp shove in the shoulder. "Quit staring, dumb fuck, it's impolite."

"No swearing at the table, sir," Alfred scolded. Tim noted that Alfred only said _at the table_, as if he knew that there was no chance of getting Jason to stop swearing all the time. It was actually interesting and amusing.

"Oh." Jason blinked down at his food, startled for a moment. "Uh, right."

Tim poked at the eggs on his plate, his mind tumbling onward at a hundred miles an hour. Through his musings, he idly began to separate the scrambled fried yolks and the spliced spiced peppers and the bits of ham. He'd never been to therapy before. Actually, by all accounts he _should_ have gone to therapy after his father died. It might have helped with the panic attacks, and the guilt. But Tim wasn't sure what he was going to say. He'd been kidnapped. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. The Reach had done nothing to him— nothing that scanners could pick up, anyway.

Jason caught his wrist, and Tim looked up at him, startled. "What?" he asked, blinking as Jason slid Tim's plate closer to him. His mouth fell open as the boy stabbed at the eggs, gathering a pepper or two onto the prongs of his fork, and shoved it into his mouth. "Hey, that's—"

"Shut up," Jason grunted, chewing slowly. He didn't seem fazed by the pepper, or even seem to be tasting the food at all. He looked disappointed, really. He swallowed and frowned. "It's not like you were eating it."

"I was going to!"

Jason rolled his eyes and shoved the plate back. He looked down at his own plate, and dolefully began eating his own food. It was just toast, like usual, but Alfred had set two strips of bacon on the side. Tim wondered if Jason would eat them. He chewed instinctively, and swallowed with a pensive expression.

"The last time I had peppers," Jason said quietly, "Artemis was here, and I challenged her to a hot pepper eating contest."

Tim stared, wide eyed. "O-oh," Tim said. "That's… oh. Who won?"

"Artemis."

"Oh."

They said nothing else to each other for the rest of their breakfast. The silence wasn't exactly awkward, because they were used to each other in a way that gave them leave to be in the same room for an extended period of time without speaking. But still, their conversation had ended on a sour note, and Tim could tell the day was only just rolling out the first taste of bitterness.

* * *

"I wish I stayed dead."

Black Canary looked startled. He wished she would just understand that he didn't want to talk about it, and this was why. She judged him for it. She saw his weakness and she thought it wrong, and she would tell Dick about it. He didn't want that. He didn't want that at all. He just wanted to leave already. Speaking about it made him uncomfortable, and he'd rather just not deal with it.

"You don't mean that," Dinah said. Jason watched her, his aviators folded in his lap, and his eyes large and blue and dead.

"Yes," he said. "I do."

She looked down at her desk, her expression unreadable for a moment. Jason was aware of the camera, and it made him nervous, antsy, and he wrung his hands to keep himself calm. His fingers brushed over scars, and old calluses. He hated the feeling of vulnerability that overtook him while he breathed and tried to stay focused. He could deal with this. He could.

"Jason, bear with me." She leaned forward, her brow furrowing in concern. "Please answer me honestly. Have you ever entertained the thought of suicide?"

"Yes."

He'd answered it so frankly, he'd startled her again. It made him want to laugh. But he didn't he looked down at his hands, rubbing his knuckles against his palm. Should he have lied instead? He didn't feel very well thinking about it. But it was the truth. Many times, when alone and feeling the darker parts of his mind beginning to take over, Jason considered ending it all. He'd attempted it once or twice, but they'd been half-hearted and he'd abandoned the thought quickly enough.

Black Canary nodded, as if this did not frighten her. "Have you ever attempted—?"

"Yes."

She studied him, her expression grim. "And?"

"I'm still alive."

"But," Dinah said, "you don't want to be?"

Jason took a deep breath, the world shuddering around him. He didn't know. He didn't, and it scared him. He didn't want to die again, but living was so hard… how did he cope with it? He bit his lip, bowing his head so she wouldn't see how frightened he was. He didn't want them to know. He was terrified— he could feel that, at the very least. But fear and pain… that was nothing. It was just another stone casting into the shallows of his fragile mind. The ripples were the difficult things, sending him into frenzies and stupors and lapses. Jason couldn't trust himself. How could anyone else?

"I just want it to go away," Jason admitted, squeezing his fingers together.

"What is that, exactly?"

He looked up, his eyes wide. "Let me ask _you_ something," he said, his voice thin. "And answer honestly. Do you think I'm crazy?"

It took Dinah a moment to answer. That moment was cold, and he kept silent with bated breath and terrified eyes. She folded her hands before her, and she shook her head. "No, Jason." Black Canary sighed, closing her eyes. "I think you've lost sense of yourself, and that scares you. But no, I don't think you're crazy. You've suffered a lot of trauma— more than anyone I've ever met, and… you're doing well."

"Excuse me?" he blurted, snapping up straight. He stared at her, searching her face, but she was not joking, and that made him laugh in disbelief. "Oh my god, what are you snorting, lady?"

She looked at him, her eyes telling him that this wasn't the time for such jokes. She did smile gently, though, and she shook her head. "You've handled yourself… far better than anyone could have hoped. When you were found, half of us who knew about your predicament doubted you'd ever be sentient again."

"You included?" Jason scowled and glared at the floor. "Thanks so much."

"No, I thought you would wake up eventually," Dinah said. "I just didn't think you would adapt so quickly to life again."

"I haven't adapted," Jason growled. "I'm just… I don't even know. I can't call what I do living. I'm just… here. I hate that. I hate existing without a purpose."

"Do you want to die, Jason?"

She was using the same tactic he'd used on him. Startling him by the bluntness of her tone, no ease into the harsh truths. Because Jason was not one to be coddled. He needed the brunt force of it all to keep him in line. He choked on his words for a moment, stuttering as he took a breath. He pulled his legs up onto his chair, pressing his mouth to his jeans to muffle a scream if it came. It didn't.

"No," he murmured. "I don't want to die again."

Dinah smiled sadly. "Then you've adapted to life," she said. "Whether you like it or not. It's only human nature to fear death— and you're very human, Jason. Just as you're very, very much alive."

He took a deep breath. And he began to cry.

* * *

Tim sat in the silence, his head bowed, and his eyes flitting worriedly between the faces of his friends and the strangers. He was hyperaware of his own breath, and he found it hard to breathe regularly when he realized how loud it was. But it wasn't loud. It was just the silence getting to him. He was trying so hard not to panic, but his anxiety was creeping upon him fast. He was hunched forward, glasses sliding against his nose. He was the only one out of the heroes that had been kidnapped in his civvies, but he preferred it this way. He felt safer as Tim Drake than as Robin. Why? He did not know. Perhaps it was because Robin was… untouchable. He felt that it only made sense that Tim Drake had been kidnapped, because Tim Drake was a weak boy, and Tim Drake needed therapy. Not Robin. Robin was stronger than that.

Jason was taking a while. That worried Tim more than anything else. Sure, Jason was the one who needed therapy the most out of all of them, but it had been close to half an hour already, and when Tim stood to stretch his legs, he heard a familiar sound. No one else would notice, not unless they pressed their ear to the door, but Tim was so hyperaware of his surroundings today, he could hear the muffled sobs very clearly. He looked around, but no one reacted.

_Dick should be here_, Tim thought sadly. _He should be here for Jason. Where is he?_

"Are you… alright, _ese_?" Jaime asked, when Tim sat back down beside him, burying his face in his hands. Tim shook his head mutely. He couldn't tell them that Jason was crying, because that would be awful. He didn't know what to do, or how to help. What was Black Canary doing, anyway? She was supposed to be helping!

"You look like you need a garbage bin, Rob," Bart piped up. Tim blinked up at him. Did he really look that bad? "Want me to run and get'cha one?"

"I'm fine," Tim said. His voice was shaky, though, and that made him shrink into himself. "I-I mean… I'm just worried."

He looked at the civilians who had been rescued. They'd had it so much worse, and they were watching him with varying looks of confusion, pity, empathy, and bitterness. Suddenly, the door burst open, and Tim looked up, startled as Jason grabbed him by a fistful of his shirt and flung him to his feet.

"Hey, hey!" Bart gasped, jumping to his feet as well. He looked around wildly, and Jaime stood up as well, his mouth falling open. Tim raised his hand to tell them that it was okay, and that they could sit down, but he flinched too fast when Jason's voice growled in his ear.

"Why _the fuck_ didn't you tell me what day it was?" Jason's face was ruddy, flushed from crying, and there was an odd hitch to his voice. His cheeks were dry, though, and the way he was holding Tim reminded him of the times when he had to calm the boy down after mindless fits.

"I…" Tim choked, glancing worriedly at Black Canary who had rushed to the doorway. "What?"

"The date!" Jason shoved him back, and Tim stumbled, his hands flying to his chest as he gasped in shock. "April first!"

"April…?" Tim's heart dropped. He felt bile stir in his stomach, and in his mind he could see it all, the lights and the blur and the laughter and the cheers and the screams— the startling crunch, and the awkwardly bent bodies. He stumbled back, shocked and fearful of his own thoughts. "Oh. Oh my god."

"Yeah! Oh my _fucking _god. Where is he? Did you talk to him at all this morning?" Jason was shaking in rage, and Tim felt like his knees were about to give way. He shook his head, attempting to speak, but all the came out was a soft whispery sound. He remembered that night so clearly, it hurt him still, because it had been the stuff of nightmares for years. He pulled out his cell phone, ignoring the questioning stares of his friends, of the strangers, and even Black Canary seemed confused.

The tone rung, and rung, and rung, and rung, and Tim felt panic bubbling inside him. "He's not… he's not answering."

"Call Wally."

"I don't… " Tim's lip trembled, and Jason watched him with a hard expression before tearing the phone from his fingers.

"I swear to god," Jason snarled, dialing fast and pushing Tim aside. "If we find him anywhere but the obvious place, someone is getting their viscera torn out from their throats."

"I… I don't think that's even poss—"

"Shut up. You should have told me what day it was." Jason pressed the phone to his ear, waving at Black Canary offhandedly when she approached them slowly.

"I didn't know," Tim choked.

"Uh… what's going on, now?" Garfield asked, eyes wide.

"It's… it's nothing," Tim said, his voice tight. Even the civilians were staring at him incredulously. "I mean, it's really personal, and nothing you need to worry about. I'm sorry."

"Hey, ass freckles," Jason spat into Tim's phone. Tim winced at his tone. "What are you doing right now?"

"Is this about Nightwing?" Bart asked, studying Tim with large eyes. "Wait, can I use that insult on Wally too? Because that's totally crash, I bet Wally just turned like fifty shades of red—"

"No." Tim said. "No."

"Robin," Black Canary said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, and shook his head.

"Wait, I need… I need to make sure this is okay first."

"Yes, it's me, Forest Grump," Jason said, his voice becoming chilly. "I was just wondering if, you know, you'd heard from my narcissistic older bro in the past, say… twenty four hours?"

"It _is_ about Nightwing!" Bart cried. Jaime hushed him, and Black Canary sighed, shaking her head. It seemed she'd caught on, and she stood back.

"Excuse me? Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of your _bullshit_. If you're not in Gotham by the time I get back, I'm going to find you, and I'm going to hurt you. Find Barbara if you can, if she hasn't found him already. I don't care. But make an effort to care for two seconds, because if I'm the only one to give a fuck about how that asshole is feeling today, then _we have a major problem_."

Jason hung up after that, and Tim stared as he flung the phone at the wall, watching it shatter with a defeated expression. Tim stepped forward, touching Jason's arm lightly, but the boy snapped, shoving him back with a snarl twisting at his lips. Tim didn't feel especially dejected over it, because he was used to Jason fighting him. But it still stung a little.

"I… I'm sorry," Tim said softly. The muscle in Jason's jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. "You… need to calm down. Do you really think he'll need all this attention today?"

"I don't trust him to be alone," Jason said. His voice was very quiet, and it sounded… frightened. "I wouldn't trust myself, if it was me."

"You think he'll… he'll what?" Tim couldn't imagine the implications of Jason's tone. Dick wouldn't. He was stronger than that. He was! "He wouldn't."

"I've known him longer than you," Jason hissed, pushing him toward Black Canary. "So don't tell me what you think he will or won't do. Not today."

Tim was so shocked, so scared and confused, that Black Canary had to take him by the arm and lead him into the room. He stood for a moment, his breath hitching. He looked up at Black Canary, his mouth parted and his lips trembling. "He _wouldn't,_" he breathed.

"No, I don't think so," she said. She looked away though, and it didn't reassure Tim at all. "Nightwing is… I've known him since he was a little boy. He's a lot stronger than that."

"What's your definition of strength?" Tim asked, looking up at her with wide eyes.

"The will to carry on. Nightwing has that. He won't… go down that type of path. Now, let's talk about you, Robin."

"How can we talk about me right now?" Tim murmured, collapsing in the chair across from her. He glanced at the camera, and he felt himself begin to choke on his words. "Y-you're not going to show this to him, are you?"

"Of course not." She smiled, her eyes cast toward the camera sadly. "This is for organizational purposes. But… Robin, how are you doing?"

"Awful." Tim swallowed the lump in his throat, and he pulled his glasses off, rubbing the indentation they'd made on his nose. "I… I mean, I don't know what to do."

"About Nightwing? Or Jason?" Black Canary was watching him carefully. Tim bit his lip, looking back at the door.

"Both." He hoped Jason wouldn't leave without him, because… because he couldn't deal with searching for both of them. It was bad enough that Tim had forgotten, but if anything happened to either of them… it would be all his fault. "Di— Nightwing, he's… he's all I've got right now. In terms of stability, I mean. I… I can't do it. I don't know what to do if he… if he's not okay, then how am I supposed to—?"

"Robin," she said delicately. "Nightwing is not going to hurt himself. I don't know where Jason got the— well, no, that's not true. I know why Jason is making assumptions, but they're false. Don't panic."

"Sorry," he murmured, hugging his arms. "I'm really sorry. I… should have more faith in him, right? He'll probably be hurt that I…"

"You have nothing to apologize for. I know you're scared, and that's natural. But can you tell me how you're doing, after being kidnapped?"

"It's not the first time it's happened," Tim said softly. "And it won't be the last."

"No. But after what happened to your father—"

"Please don't," Tim gasped, bolting up straight. He stared at her with a pained expression, and he shook his head profusely, his voice catching in his throat. "I don't want to talk about that right now. I don't want to talk about that ever."

"I understand." She sighed, shaking her head slowly. She looked at him with remorse in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

Tim looked down at his knees, and he understood now why he'd heard Jason crying. This was awful. "I… I'm not strong enough for this." He let out a shaky breath. "I don't… I mean, I'm not like Nightwing, or Batman, or even Jason. When I became Robin… I didn't think of it as a long-term thing at all. I just put on Jason's old suit, and helped Batman once. And then… well, you know what happened." He couldn't talk about what happened to his father, because it still hurt more than anything in the world. Because it had been his fault.

"You only wanted to help," Black Canary said gently. "Robin, that's not a bad thing."

"Yes it is!" He sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. "Every time I try and help, I make things worse! I thought Batman needed a Robin, but that's not true. I only slowed him down, and got kidnapped, and then… and then I ruined everything. I keep doing that. Even now, with Jason back… I don't know what to do. He was Robin back before… when I was just starting detective work as a hobby, and… I thought he was amazing. He's still amazing, even though he's… sick. I don't know what to call it. But he's… when I first started being Robin, I always felt awful because I was trying to fill the place Jason left, but I never could. He was _so good_, and I— I don't know what to do."

"You need to have more faith in yourself." She was staring at him, eyes wide and pitying, and Tim felt sick, he hugged his arms closer to his chest, and he thought about Dick, who was probably trying very hard right now not to panic himself. "You're an amazing Robin, Tim. We all think so— your deductive skills are practically unparalleled, and you are important to all of us. Particularly Batman and Nightwing. I'm going to be honest." She leaned forward and smiled grimly. "If you hadn't showed up, I think we might have lost them both."

He put on his glasses again, because he didn't want her to see his tearing up. This wasn't fair. He was… he was so weak, and he didn't know how to be better. His voice was small and trembling. "Don't tell Nightwing," he begged, his body curling into itself. He looked up, and saw the startled, poignant look that flashed in Black Canary's eyes. She watched him for a few moments, her lips pressed together thinly.

"Of course not," she said tenderly. "Nothing leaves this room."

Tim looked to the camera, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't so sure.

"I… Being Robin is… my life. I think that— that scares me, because I didn't want it to come to this. I get scared that I'm forgetting who I am, when I'm Robin, when I'm not. I'm scared for Nightwing too. It's— I'm sorry." He closed looked at his hands, watching them tremble pitifully. "It's just that… sometimes I forget what's the mask, and what's not. With all of us. Is that horrible?"

He could tell that this wasn't something Black Canary had expected to hear from him by her stunned silence. She recovered quickly. "No, it's not horrible." She looked down, smiling slightly. "To be honest, I think we all have that dilemma. Are we going too far, and losing ourselves with our hero personas? I guess it's a blur to most of us. We're not much different in and out of costume. But for you, and Nightwing, and Batman, you have to keep your lives so separate… I know what you're saying, and you don't need to be scared. It's not bad that you want to keep your two identities separate and intact."

Tim didn't know what else to say. He nodded, letting out a small breath, and he stood. "Yeah. I— I guess. Um, I should go. If I take any longer, Jason might start punching people. And that'd be bad."

Black Canary laughed a little, and nodded. "Yes, I imagine that would be bad." She watched him make his way toward the door. "Robin… they're proud of you. You know that, don't you?"

Tim started at the doorknob, his throat constricting. He turned to face her, smiling weakly. "Yeah," he said. "Thank you, Black Canary."

"Tell Nightwing I'm here if he needs me," she said. Tim looked at her, startled for a moment. He nodded, but he couldn't imagine Dick sitting before her and spilling his guts, as Tim just had. He'd probably make excuses and leave before any real talking could be done. When Dick didn't want to do something, it was all evasive maneuvers and not-so-subtle escapes.

"Finally," Jason grunted, jumping to his feet. Bart and Jaime and La'gaan and Garfield were all watching, eyes curious. The other kids looked as if they just wanted to melt away. Tim noticed the lone girl of the group staring at her knees, gripping the underside of her chair tightly. "How did your little heart to heart go?"

"Fine. Let's go." Tim looked at the remains of his shattered phone, and he sighed, scooping up the battered pieces. Jason was watching him with a twisted expression.

"What, are you going to try and fix that? Seriously?" When Tim shrugged, Jason shook his head, raising his hands into the air. "I give up. You're like the definition of goody-two-shoes, I can't even look at you. You disgust me."

"Okay, whatever. Can we go now?" Tim pocketed the remnants of his phone while Jason mockingly gave a two-finger salute. He then cocked his head at La'gaan, and gave him a particularly unfriendly one-finger salute, walking away with an air of haughtiness that Tim had never seen before. La'gaan was left confused as to why everyone else was stifling laughter.

Tim and Jason wandered to the zeta tube that would bring them back to Gotham, but Tim couldn't shake his uneasiness. Jason also seemed to be feeling disquieted, for he stopped teasing, and kept his head bowed and his shoulders squared. Tim stopped Jason before he headed through, catching him by the arm. Jason turned his head, his jaw set.

"He's not suicidal," Tim said steadily. "He's not. I don't know why you think he is, but he's probably fine right now."

"You don't get it," Jason said. His voice rung with an icy bite to it, and it made Tim wince. "It's not about whether he's suicidal— which, by the way, he was at one point, hate to break it to you—"

"He was?" Tim's voice broke, and he grabbed Jason's other arm. "What do you mean? He… he wouldn't—!"

"Oh my god, chill out," Jason pushed him, his lips drawn back and his teeth bared. "Look, everyone has their bad days. Mine come by the plenty nowadays, but Dick's are… rare. But when they come, they come like a fucking hurricane. Anyway, it was a bad day to start out with, and there was a lot of fighting— uh, well, mostly between me and him, but he had a disagreement with Babs and B too, which… I shouldn't be the one to tell you about this. But, whatever, all of that, coupled with a nasty run in with Scarecrow was enough to push golden boy over the edge. Almost literally."

This wasn't what Tim wanted to hear. He closed his eyes and turned away. "That's… that's not—"

"What I'm trying to say," Jason spat, grabbing him by the arm. His bony fingers dug painfully into the muscle. "Is that Wingnut isn't the type of person who can… can handle things like this on his own. He may pretend that he can, but he's a _people person_. He likes hugs and smiles and hot chocolate. He's an asshole, but he needs to be around people who love him when he's low, or else— well, I don't think Scarecrow will show up, but you never know."

"I didn't know you cared so much." Tim was surprised. Pleasantly surprised, and sort of guilty. He'd never seen Jason so passionate about anything, and… and Tim was being a pretty poor brother in comparison.

Jason looked away, his face scrunching in distaste. "Yeah, well," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead, as if he had a headache, "_someone_ has to. And I don't know if this is caring so much as pissed beyond recognition that no one is with him right now."

"Did you talk to Barbara?"

"I broke your phone, dumbass."

"Oh," Tim murmured. "Oh, right. We should… go find her."

"Yes, that would be smart." Jason scoffed and pushed him into the zeta tube.

It was odd, being outside with Jason. Usually when they were in each other's company, it in the comfort of their home, where they could talk about anything. They were too exposed here, and that worried Tim. What if he lost Jason in the throng? What if he was overwhelmed by something, caught somewhere and had a panic attack? What would he do then?

But nothing happened. Tim was concerned over what ifs and maybes, when he should have been worrying about Dick. But Tim didn't believe Dick was in any trouble. He merely felt guilty for not remembering that today… today…

Tim had been four. But he remembered it clearer than he remembered his father's voice which— which terrified him. In Tim's nightmares, he would be there, standing in the crowd, a helpless child, and he would watch the Graysons fall one by one. Tim's father had tried to shield him from the impact, but he'd seen it. He remembered screaming, but unsure as to why. He remembered being confused, because bodies did not bend like that. He remembered the frenzy and the cacophony and the tears. He remembered Dick Grayson's face when he'd been forced away from the bodies.

"I was there that night," Tim admitted to Jason. The boy had his hood up, his body stiff and his lips twisted as he stuck close to Tim's side.

"That must have sucked." Jason shoved his hands into his pockets, ducking air as they neared the Gotham Cemetery. He stopped before the gates and grabbed Tim's arm, spinning him around. "Do you think I did the right thing, calling Wally?"

Tim was surprised. Jason didn't often show his uncertainty, not to Tim, anyway. It was odd, but refreshing. "I…" Tim looked at him, searching his skinny face. He was too pale, too thin, too skeletal. He was scary to look at sometimes. "I think you were worried about Dick, and you rationalized that having his best friend around would help him. It wasn't a bad thing."

"But was it _right_?"

Tim stared, and he couldn't answer. Because how should he know if it had been the right decision or not? The outcome of his outburst could have been anything from an easy beckoning to Gotham, or an invitation for disaster. "I don't know," Tim said. "But… either way, I think it was nice of you. Well, not to Wally. That was really harsh, but for Dick…"

"Um…" Jason frowned. "Thanks. I guess."

He pushed into the graveyard after that, moving against the bitter spring winds. His hair was whipping, visible under his hood, and Tim followed close behind with his head bowed. He was scared for Dick, and he was scared for Jason, and he was scared for himself. Had he said too much while speaking to Black Canary? Had he treaded on hollow ground by opening up about his insecurities, his fear?

_I wish I had Jason's strength_, Tim thought, watching the boy's back as they weaved between graves. _If I was him, I wouldn't know how to keep going_. Sometimes Tim thought about Jason's situation. He thought about Dick's too. The will to carry on, Black Canary had said. That was strength. _What if I don't have enough?_

They found Dick where they expected him to be. Neither of them needed telling to keep their distance as Dick buried his face into Barbara's shoulder, holding her very tightly, as if he would sink into the graves beneath him if he let go. Tim could not tell if he was crying or not. It seemed as if he wasn't, but if Tim had to guess, they'd been in this position for a while.

_No Wally_, Tim thought sadly. He looked at Jason, and saw that his body had gone rigid. The atmosphere had done it, Tim was sure. Jason's grave was near the Wayne's, not the Grayson's. But still, the memories the graveyard had triggered something with Tim's broken friend, and he could see it in the way Jason Todd held himself. The pallid cheeks, the pained expression, the way his body hunched as his boots tangled in the damp yellow grass.

There were five headstones. The sun caught the marble, glittering against the surface in a depressing dance of light and glow and something dead and pure. Jason stood stiff beside Tim, watching in silence, because they did not want to disturb the quiescent mourning, the pretty grief. Dick Grayson didn't like to show his sadness. He liked to bury under layers of different emotions, different masks. But if Dick even managed a smile today, Tim would feel sick, because he would never be able to believe any smile Dick gave ever again.

Barbara looked up at them, and her eyes were cloudy and distant. But it seemed the sight of them seemed to cheer her, even if it was just a little, and she looked down at Dick, brushing his hair back and murmuring something in his ear. He looked up suddenly, startled and… maybe ashamed, and he looked at them for a brief moment. He turned quickly back toward the graves as Barbara pressed her hands to his shoulders in comfort, and stood. Dick had looked… a little hollow. Tim thought that was a good sign, because at least he wasn't hiding how much he was hurting.

Barbara's knees were wet as she neared them, her jeans stained from the grass, and her deep red jacket curled tightly across her chest. She looked between them, the wind catching on her red curls as she took a deep breath, the world sighing in response. She looked older than eighteen, as if the wind had weathered her as it had the graves around them. But she gave a meager smile anyway, and Tim could feel how genuine it was when her eyes grew warmer, light and gratitude gleaming there.

"Wally called me," she said, her voice hushed. Tim was sure Dick could hear them, though. "He wanted to make sure Dick wasn't alone— and he mentioned something about getting a nasty lecture."

"Wally has the right to be a douchebag if he wants to be," Jason said quietly. His eyes were on Dick, and he looked away, his body locking in discomfort. "Just… not today."

"I understand," Barbara sighed, shaking her head sadly. "I… honestly, I'm glad he called. Too much has happened lately, and…"

"Yeah," Tim said, nodding slowly. "Being alone is… it's worse, I think. Minds are scary places."

"You have no idea," Jason muttered. Barbara either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore it.

"Wally would have come, but he had class," Barbara said, as if it made up for it. "He might still come. I'm not sure. It's… I think he'll be okay, but…"

"It would be nice if he came," Tim finished for her. Barbara looked at him, and she looked so sad, her blue eyes heavily lidded and glazed. She nodded, and she turned away, moving back to Dick's side without hesitation. Tim moved forward as well while Jason hung back, watching them with shaded eyes and a twisted mouth. Tim decided that Jason wouldn't last long in the cemetery, and vowed to take him home as soon as they just… made sure Dick was fine.

"Hey, Tim," Dick said, his voice flat. He kept looking forward, his ankles crossed and his knees tucked to his chest. "I don't think you ever got to meet my parents. Officially."

"No," Tim said quietly. His throat was tight as hazy images of that night came crawling back, sopping and bloody and gnarled like decayed fingers. "I… never got the chance."

"They would have liked you."

It hurt too much to respond. _Maybe I shouldn't be here after all_, he thought, biting his lip as Barbara's hand slipped against Dick's back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. The graves were all very well taken care of, Tim saw as he bent down as well to better pay his respects. Mary and John Grayson were buried together, their stones practically touching. Dick's cousin, also named John, had a larger space between the stones, and it looked lonely. Dick's aunt and uncle were buried close too, but Dick's uncle's grave was newer. He'd died only a few years after the rest of the Graysons, and he'd died comatose and paralyzed. Tim knew this only because he'd done his research.

There was no awkward speaking between them. Only somber silence. If Dick spoke to his parents, he did it while he was alone, because now he only stared. Tim found himself lost in thought for a little while, until he remembered Jason. When he looked back, the boy was gone. And Tim felt guilt gnawing at him with sharp, tiny teeth, ripping and pulling at him inside and out.

* * *

As promised, when Jason gained five pounds, Dick swore to send him on a mission. Tim was happy if only because it meant Jason would get out of the house more, interact with people and have happier experiences. Dick was still very wary about letting Jason go, but Tim could see that he was enjoying Jason's newfound drive. By the time they gave 'Red Hood' (a name that meant very little, yet meant entirely too much) a look to go with the name, Jason seemed genuinely excited at the idea of being back in the field.

"Ah," he said, clutching the brown jacket he decided he was _definitely_ wearing, because it had a lot of zippers and padding. "Smell it, Timmy. It's the smell of sweet victory."

"Actually, that's leather," Tim said, pushing the jacket away when Jason tried to shove it in his face. He could smell the new leather across the room, and it was overwhelming. He didn't care to have it so close.

Jason looked at him with his usual cloudy gaze, nothing particularly bright or happy about his eyes. "No," Jason said, "it's the skin of my enemies. Our blades are sharp. Blah blah blah."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's leather."

"Well fuck you too, kill joy," Jason spat, hugging his jacket to his chest. He seemed to really like that jacket, and all of the new costume in general, because he kept fingering at the fabric of his new suit, and playing with the many, many pockets of the jacket, and running his fingertips over the red accented gloves Nightwing had given him. Tim knew why Jason seemed to be drawn to those most. He'd worn Jason's uniform once, after all.

Wally was talking to Dick again. Tim had no idea that they'd ever stopped talking, but apparently after Artemis's death, things had been a little… rough. They'd talked it out when Wally had appeared later on April 1st, whatever it was, and now they were… okay. Tim couldn't be sure. But he knew they were at least talking again, because Jason liked to play a cruel game where he stalks everyone in the house until they realize and kick him out of the room. Of course, it's not so much about bothering them as it is avoiding being alone. Tim had learned this.

Tim picked up the shiny red helmet, which was plain and almost egg shaped. There were holes for eyes, and little grooves where the helmet was assembled, but nothing else. Jason wouldn't say why he wanted his entire face covered. He'd just requested it, and Dick, never wanting to deny him his comfort, obliged. Red Hood was a name. Just a name. A name Jason had adopted almost just out of spite.

_Look at me_, the name screamed_. I'm going to make you suffer for what you did to me!_

Tim didn't want to think about it.

"This bird thing," Jason sighed, holding up his new suit. There was a red bird emblazoned on the chest— not dissimilar to Nightwing's sigil, if Tim were to be honest. The style was a bit different, blockier and bolder, but all the same the echo rang. "Like… why? Just, why?"

"Maybe," Tim said slowly, cupping the helmet in his hands. It felt too heavy. Tim didn't know how Jason planned on wearing it. "Maybe he just doesn't want you to forget."

"That I was raised by a lunatic in a bat suit, his posh old butler, and his plucky orphaned golden child?" Jason's eyes rolled, but he spoke fondly. "Yeah, okay. Because that would happen."

"Not… them," Tim said. His voice was small, and he wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to. The words got all jumbled when he tried to process them. "You. I think… Dick's afraid that he'll lose you again, if he doesn't show you he thinks you belong. Here. With us."

Jason seemed startled. He didn't speak for a few moments, and merely blinked. He looked away, then, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "I call bullshit," he said. "Dick just wants me to look like a mini him."

Jason didn't sound like he believed that. In fact, it seemed to Tim that Jason was trying to hide a smile. But maybe he was just imagining things.

"Do you miss being Robin?" Tim asked, running his fingers over the eyeholes of the crimson helmet. His reflection was gleaming back, distorted and long-faced.

Jason was quiet, his face going rather blank and his eyelids sliding languidly over the gauzy blue glare. He looked exhausted. "No," he said. He snatched the helmet back, setting it atop the brown leather jacket. His fingers lingered though, brushing the 'red hood' and trembling slightly. He stepped back, looking repulsed for a moment before he relaxed and stared glumly at the wall.

Tim knew he was lying. It was written in his body language, and it hurt a little. Tim wanted to pry, he wanted to know, but Jason was a tough code to crack. It would be better, perhaps, if Tim just let sleeping dogs lie. Still… he couldn't help but be curious. It was in his nature to want to know everything. That was the sort of boy he was.

"You can talk about it," Tim said gently. "How it was when you were Robin. Dick talks about his time, back when the Team was just starting up—"

"That's because people loved Dick when he was Robin," Jason said. He looked at Tim, his expression not as bitter as Tim would have expected. He looked simply apathetic. "Everyone loves Dick now, too. They never really cared about me though."

"That's not true at all!" Tim gasped, shaking his head furiously. Jason looked bored, and he shrugged. "You have no idea how much they cared about you, Jason. They thought really highly of you, and when you… when you died, they were heartbroken. Trust me. I had to try and fill the place that you left, and I did a really crappy job."

"They mourned me," Jason said. His tone was blunt and unconcerned, unwavering and dull. "That doesn't mean they loved me. It just makes them decent human beings."

"But—!"

"Do you wanna spar?" Jason asked, his eyes flashing darkly in warning. Tim shrunk back a little, his words dying on his tongue. They were done discussing this, Tim knew, and it made him sad. Jason must have enjoyed being Robin. How could he not? Lying about it wasn't going to help.

"Okay," Tim said quietly. Jason brushed past him, his shoulder bumping against Tim's chest as he moved quickly toward the gymnasium area. Tim followed, his curiosity subdued for a bit. It would be rude to keep prying when he so obviously hated the topic. They rolled out a few mats so neither of them did any serious damage to each other, and Tim shrugged off his sweater, wondering if he could barter with Jason. "How about if I win, you'll talk to me. No lies. Fair?"

"You won't win," Jason swore, his head cocking as he gave a thin, almost haughty smile. "I might be a little rusty, birdy, but I'm pretty sure I can still beat you."

Tim grinned at the challenge in his tone. _Is he underestimating me, or am I underestimating him? _"Don't hold your breath," Tim said. "I don't plan on going down easily."

"I'd expect nothing less than tooth and claw." Jason shrugged, his body sliding into a battle ready stance. They watched each other, their eyes wary as they both took their options. Jason moved first, as Tim had expected, his scrawny body darting forward, and Tim slipped to the ground as the boy's fist whistled overhead.

Tim bent back, balancing on his hands and pushing off Jason's chest with the tips of his feet. Jason only stumbled a little as Tim curled back into a roll, bending into a crouch to protect him from the harsh blow of Jason's foot, which caught him in the shoulder. They both spun back, bare feet squelching against the mats, and Tim pushed himself up fast as Jason came reeling back, fists flying. He was erratic, Tim noticed. He relied on instinct more than strategy. That was Jason's flaw. He was _good_— Tim was positive he was better than him, even with his body being in less than perfect condition. But Tim knew that he could beat him, if he simply got a handle on how he threw his weight around, how fast he could hit and how hard and how many seconds between blows.

Tim ducked, his fingers catching Jason's wrist, and he counted for a moment before jumping, springing against Jason's leg and using the momentum to keep himself in the air long enough to spiral, and smack Jason's jaw with the heel of Tim's foot. He landed easily on his feet, wincing as Jason crashed onto his side, his face bewildered. Tim was surprised with himself too. That was foul play— they weren't supposed to aim for the head when sparring.

"I'm sorry," Tim gasped, moving forward. "Are you—?"

He choked as Jason spun on his hands, his feet connecting hard with Tim's chest. He caught himself before he fell, but he was off balance enough for Jason to strike a clean blow to his abdomen, forcing him onto his back. For a moment, Tim was breathless, but he recovered fast, flinging himself into a backwards roll before Jason could pin him.

"Did you seriously fall for that?" Jason taunted as their spar became more like a chase. Tim didn't want to hurt Jason, but the boy packed a mean punch, considering he only weighed a hundred and one pounds. Tim swerved, his arm blocking a blow as he bent himself his knee catching Jason's side. He didn't look bothered, and brushed it off with a flip back onto his hands, and a kick which Tim dodged.

He breathed and decided a different approach. _I can do what he does_, Tim thought. _But my way. Still erratic, but measured. If I can do that, I can hold him still enough to pin him._ Instead of running from Jason, Tim ran into his attacks, allowing himself to get caught by one or two blows. But then he retaliated with blunt swings, catching Jason hard in the stomach and reeling back, rolling and shoving him forward by a few quick punches to his back.

They continued like this, and Tim found that it wasn't so hard to become used to Jason's way of moving. He was fast, but not as lithe as Tim or Dick. He was strong though, much stronger than he looked. His blows made Tim's breath hitch, because they were more painful than expected. Dick, Barbara, and Bruce always pulled their punches with Tim. Jason was throwing _everything_ into his.

"Fuck," Jason gasped, sliding back, his body hunched as his fingernails dragged across the mat. Tim heard the tough fabric tear, and he could see gouges in the floor where Jason stood. Tim was already on defensive, waiting for him to strike. But instead, Jason looked frustrated, and he swore loudly again. "Okay, fuck this," he breathed, pulling his shirt over his head.

Tim was amused until he saw Jason's chest. "Wait," he said, feeling a chill run down his spine. "Are those…?"

Of course, Tim had fallen for the trick just as Jason had planned. _Oh_, was Tim's only thought when he found himself lying flat on his back, pain lancing through his chest as Jason planted his bare foot between Tim's ribs. _I'm so stupid, crap, he just played me. _Tim blinked away stars, groaning as Jason smirked triumphantly, folding his arms across his scarred chest.

The scars were very precise, but they were grotesque in a very particular way. The faint lines over lapping the _T_ shape where a scalpel had opened him up post-mortem were likely ghosts of the stitches used to close him back up again, like he was some sort of rag doll. It made Tim sick to look at, because the scars were so bold against the stark white of Jason's chest. Someone had probed inside him once, sliced him open, _embalmed_ him. _He must feel violated._ _I would, if it were me._

"You're _dead_, little birdy," Jason declared. He sounded proud of himself. That was an improvement from the dead tone he often had.

"Yeah," Tim said, wriggling a little beneath Jason's foot. "Yeah, I yield."

Jason stepped back, and Tim sat up, staring as the boy scooped up his shirt from the floor. "How did you know I'd stop?" he asked as Jason tugged his shirt back on. Jason glanced at him, and sighed.

"Because your curiosity is sorta ridiculous," Jason said, his brow furrowing. "And… I don't know. I just guessed."

"Does Bruce know about the scars?" Tim asked, jumping to his feet as Jason turned away. "Does Dick?"

"Bruce does," Jason said slowly. "I… I don't know. Dick might. It's dumb, they're just scars. I've got loads of 'em."

"They're from your autopsy, Jason," Tim said softly. Jason did not reply. He looked at Tim, his eyes darting fast, searching Tim's face for a moment. Fear gleamed inside the filmy blue gaze, before he shook his head and fled the room.

Tim stood, nauseated and sad, and he wondered if there would ever be a time where he could speak to Jason without causing him more pain and grief.

* * *

He only half listened to G. Gordon Godfrey get a hard on for the Reach's team up with Lex Corp. to end world hunger, or like, decimate the human race through their food supply or something. _If people watched more Sci Fi, they'd see why this is such a huge fucking red flag_, Jason thought grumpily. _Why can't Earth just understand the isolationism is probably their safest bet?_ Jason hated politics. He hated politicians, because they were all power hungry beasts, and they tore at each other and ensnared their weak, simple-minded prey, trapping it with its own thoughts and ideals and then stuck it in cages. Yes. Jason Todd despised politics.

No one had commented at the fact that he had shown up for the mission debriefing. Mal Duncan had remembered him, which struck Jason as odd, because Jason honestly had never spoken a word to Mal before. He remembered Bumblebee joining the Team, and Mal following only because he wanted to make sure she was safe, or some mushy dependence issue he had. Jason didn't know. He never cared.

He felt okay. There was nothing particularly excruciating about being around the warehouse in Blüdhaven. He felt listless, his body too heavy, but the weight was something he could manage. He was managing. The thought made him want to laugh— bitterly, but… but it could be real. Maybe. He wasn't sure yet, but… but he felt that the world was growing brighter, little by little, and each passing day went by a little faster, and though each night was a trial, at the very least he put up with the nightmares instead of going sleepless to avoid them.

Still. He thought it would be a comfort if he would just… die. His fear of death was a fluctuating scale. One day he could be sitting placidly, watching television and musing that life was getting better, and the next he could be making a noose out of blankets. The decay of his sanity was built up again rapidly, and there were brief periods— when Tim was at school, and Dick at work, usually— where giant gaps plagued his memory. Only the day before had Jason found himself in the bathroom, awaking as if from a hazy nightmare, with a kitchen knife digging into his forearm.

_Was I trying to kill myself?_ he'd wondered, stumbling downstairs to Alfred and begging him not to tell Dick or Tim. Jason didn't want Dick to think him too unstable to put on a mission. And if Jason did this well, he could patrol again. The thought made him almost giddy. He didn't want to be this… this fragile, disgusting excuse for a human being. He didn't want to be their broken bird. He wanted his freedom back. He wanted to live.

He had his helmet under his arm as G. Gordon finished gushing on television. Nightwing turned to them, and Jason cocked his head. He could already sense where this was going. Recon. Which, you know, was fine. Jason didn't trust himself to get down and gritty just yet, because he was still a bit too weak.

"Obviously any partnership between the Reach and Lex Luthor is bad news," Nightwing said. "So Alpha squad is going undercover to recon Lex Corp. farms. Robin, you'll be running Alpha."

Jason felt Tim stiffen in shock beside him. Jason wanted to laugh. He'd led a mission once, and he ended up blowing up… well, a sandlot in Brooklyn, amongst other things. He'd felt bad. Damn, that had been a nice looking sandlot— someone had actually bothered to clean it up so that the children who used it could play ball without stumbling over garbage. _I used to like baseball_, he thought, vaguely remembering playing the sport as a child.

"Me? Run Alpha?" Tim squeaked. Jason looked at him, the corners of his lips twitching. "Uh, right! Who's on the squad?"

"Red Hood," Nightwing said, smiling a little as Jason thumped Tim on the back, keeping his face impassive as the boy stumbled. "Blue Beetle—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Blue gasped. "I should _not_ be in the field, _ese._ What if the scarab goes all Reach apocalypse on us?"

"Spray it with insecticide?" Jason offered. Tim elbowed him in the ribs, and Jason hissed, glowering at the red and black clad teen. "_Ow_?"

Everyone else chose to ignore him. There was nothing remotely new about that feeling.

"Your scarab has had multiple opportunities to betray us. It hasn't. And right now, its connection to the Reach might be our best shot at identifying what they're up to."

Actually, as much as Jason wanted to disagree with Dick to piss him off, he made a point. If Blue Beetle had a handle on the dumb bug suit, then why was he whining? Of course, Jason said nothing, because making Dick look good was pretty damn low on his list of priorities.

Jason frowned as Impulse zipped in front of Blue Beetle, grinning broadly. "Well, if Blue's going, I'm going!" he asserted.

"I assumed as much." Jason could hear the soft sort of resignation in Dick's voice, mingling in with fondness. He tried not to over think it. "And last, but not least, Arsenal. But you'll have to travel lighter for your first mission."

"Hello, World War III," Jason said, his eyes flicking to the prosthetic on the original Roy Harper's arm. "Planning on taking down Nazi zombies, or something?"

Arsenal looked at him, and a tight smirk tugged at his lips. "How about I just nix the Nazi part, and go straight for the headshot?"

"Ooh," Jason whistled, his eyes rolling behind his mask. "My, picking on the dead kid? Harsh, Speedy. It truly fills my cold, decaying body with agony."

"Don't call me Speedy. _Robin_."

"Was that supposed to hurt?" Jason barked a laugh, and he grabbed Tim by the head, whirling him around and poking his cheek. "I didn't give up being Robin, babe— it was more like I had to adopt a new name out of circumstance."

"J— Red, let go of me," Tim hissed, swatting Jason's arms away. Jason knew Dick was only allowing this to go on because he was either amused, or thought the teasing was harmless. Which, it was. Mostly.

"Whatever, leader," Jason sighed. "Just go do… leadery stuff." Tim merely looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "Okay, ouch, I get it, I'll shut up."

After that, Arsenal decided to piss off Nightwing, which Jason thought was utterly fabulous. Fabulous to the point where Jason began to slow clap after all had gone quiet. Tim had looked embarrassed to be near him, and dragged him from the warehouse. Jason let him, because, hey, the kid was _leader_.

What a little shit.

They'd all changed into their civvies before boarding a tram to take them into the weed hut in Smallville. Jason decided he hated farms. The countryside made him _itch_, and his throat felt raw as he breathed in the clear air, and the natural odor of grass and dirt and fertilizer made him sick to his stomach. He had been born in a city brimming with smog and dust and smoke and musty air and grimy surfaces. The transition from Gotham City to Smallville, a pristine, idyllic little slice of farmboy utopia, was sensually jarring.

The small talk on the way had been painfully awkward. But he appreciated the fact that they were trying. They mostly just tried to avoid the topic of Jason being a zombified fourteen-year-old (all except Roy Harper, who thought it funny— Jason found that he actually found it funny too, in a strangely morbid way). Jaime was curious about his relation to Tim, if they were actually blood relatives, and Bart immediately answered for them.

"How do you know so much about me?" Jason asked the time traveler suspiciously. "I'm not supposed to be alive, but you seem to know a lot about a kid who died like, what? Forty years before you were born?"

"Time traveler, Hoodie!" Bart laughed. Tim hissed at him to keep his voice down, and Bart frowned. "Well, well— spoilers. Ooops. Can't say, might mess up the time stream, y'know?"

"I sincerely doubt this clown made it into your history books," Roy said, leaning back in his seat. Jason stiffened, and he looked to Roy with a locked jaw. Before that comment, Roy had been a fun taunting partner.

"Don't say clown," Tim blurted. Jason looked beside him, his body loosening in shock and relief and gratitude. Roy looked to Jason, and there was a strange look that passed his maskless face. A flicker of remorse, and a subtle hint of understanding as Roy nodded slowly.

They were all quiet for a few minutes, and Jason felt the awkward creeping of attention on him. He wanted to snarl at them to get over it, because it was not a big deal, but he couldn't. His voice was stuck in his throat, and he felt a bit too jostled by Roy's words to be safe. _He's in Arkham_, Jason reasoned with himself. _He can't hurt me. He's in Gotham, I'm in Smallville. He can't hurt me anymore._

Jason turned toward the roll of plains and grass and a blue horizon. _He deserves to die,_ Jason thought. He was chilled by the dark sound of the voice in his head. Was that voice his own? _I'm going to kill him. It won't be hard. I just need to get him out of Arkham, and then… I can make it look like an accident. So Bruce won't be disappointed in me. Or Tim. Or Dick. I can do it. I can kill him._

Jason was desperate to get off this thought path. Thankfully, Jaime Reyes's oddness seemed to save him. "No," Jaime hissed, turning his face away from them. "No. Shut up. I'm not saying that."

"Uh… _con quien chingado estas hablando_, bro?" Jason asked slowly. Tim blinked at him, while Roy simply squinted at Jason's face. Jaime looked at Jason and flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh. It's— um, my scarab, it uh…" Jaime winced, scratching his cheek. "It's sentient, and stuff, so it…"

"Talks in your head?"

"Yeah…"

"That's fucked up."

Jaime looked at him, startled for a moment. He looked down, and shrugged a little, while Jason wrinkled his nose. "And I thought sharing a house with you was bad," Jason told Tim. Tim's lips quirked upward, and he leaned back and shook his head, keeping silent.

"I think sharing a house with any Bat would probably suck pretty hard," Roy said, making meager conversation. Jason scoffed in response, and Tim sunk into his seat.

"The only one around enough to notice is this brat," Jason said, jerking a thumb to Tim. "I think I'm a pretty decent housemate, don't you, birdy?"

"No," Tim said. He sounded amused, and Bart grinned at them. "But, I mean, as opposed to being alone, I guess you're okay."

"Wow, way to boost my confidence."

"Siblings suck," Jaime mused.

"I agree whole heartedly, _chico_," Jason sighed, tsking a bit. "They're so nosy."

"And they always touch your stuff."

"And break things," Tim piped up. Jason glared at him, but his aviators shielded the glower.

"I'm an only child!" Bart said, looking as if he just wanted to take part.

"I have a clone," Roy said, raising an eyebrow. "Does that count?"

"I would say yes," Bart said, grinning as he rocked back and forth. "But only because those two aren't even related, so you've got like an extra special bond thing with Red Arrow. Yes, yes?"

"No, no?"

"What about Kid Flash?" Jaime asked Bart. "Wouldn't he count?"

"Well, I mean, I guess— but seriously, I barely see the dude, he's always whining about not making it to Central because of class, and homework. And I'm always just like, dude! You're the second fastest kid alive, you can do all your homework in like ten minutes!" Bart sighed in exasperation as Tim warned him once again to keep his voice down. "Also he refuses to race me. I think he's bitter because I'm way faster than him."

"I kind of get the bitterness, actually," Jason said. Tim looked at him, and Jason shrugged impassively. "Take it as a compliment, little bird."

"Uh, thank you?" Tim offered.

A woman's voice rang over the tram, peppy and grating. Jason hunched over, his lips twisting as he listened to her warn about staying on the tram. They rolled into the Lex Corp. building, and the tram came to a slow and steady stop. "You're super fucking welcome!" Jason chirped mimicking the lady's tone as he jumped off the tram.

He looked around, squinting through his sunglasses at the shelves and shelves of plants lining the inside of the building. Tim stepped up beside him, and Jason grabbed his arm, whispering, "Look, Timmy, look— we have just stepped into every pothead's wet dream."

"It's not _weed_, Jason," Tim hissed back, in an equally low tone.

"Of course not," Jason said, his voice leveling. "I bet they're just holding it for a friend."

"Oh my god, please shut up."

"Yes, _sir_."

Tim looked at him, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning away. The incredibly upbeat lady from the tram gathered them all, and explained virtually nothing of value. _Don't say anything stupid or snarky that will blow your cover_, he told himself. _Don't do it, Jay, you'll regret it_. It took most of his willpower, and a very quiet plea to Roy to shoot him if he looked like he was about to punch someone.

"I hope that makes your junk shrink," Jason told Bart as he munched on one of the Reach-modified apples. Bart looked at him, and began to chew obnoxiously with his mouth open.

"What's in those tubes?" Tim asked, walking up to the incredibly loud and incredibly perky lady.

"Just water, nutrients, and a little Reach-slash-Lex Corp. love!" She smiled and walked past them. "Our next stop is the pluot orchard! That's right! Pluots! In April!"

Jason stood for a moment, trying to recall if Alfred had ever forced him to eat something called a pluot before. But Jason Todd had never been big on the veggies and fruits, so he had no clue.

"Time for a bathroom break," Tim said.

"Eh, I went before we left," Bart said, wandering away. Jaime grabbed him by the arm and whirled him back on track. "Dude, they don't have pluots in the future!"

"This pluot thing sounds nasty," Jason said wrinkling his nose. Tim looked at him, smirking in amusement.

"It's a plum and apricot hybrid," Tim told him. That only made Jason's nose scrunch up more.

"Now that's just plain unnatural," Jason said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Kind of like you," Roy quipped from behind them.

Jason frowned. "Wow," he spat. "Says you, Robo-Roy."

"My arm might be robotic, Hoodie, but I'll be damned if I don't use it with class."

"I'm _sure_."

"You know," Bart said, grinning at the duo. "I sense something special here. A real _bond_. Arsenal and Red Hood, all chummy."

"Yeah, Arse. We're like _Lucy and Ethel_, we're so tight."

"_I Love Lucy_," Tim told Bart, before he could ask what Jason was referencing. "It's an old TV show."

"Like _Hello Megan_?"

"Yeah, but older."

Bart whistled, his eyebrows rising. "Sounds crash. Anyone want to watch that when we're done here, or…?"

"Pass," Roy stated immediately. They were in the bathroom now, not really doing much other than standing and waiting.

"Where would we even watch it, _hermano_?" Jaime asked, leaning against the sinks. "We sorta lack a lounging place."

"Ehh… does the Batcave have Netflix?"

"No," Tim said.

"Yes," Jason corrected, smirking as Tim looked at him sharply. "But you're not allowed in there, so no."

"Maybe we should focus on the mission," Tim said slowly. Jason rolled his eyes, hopping up on the sink's countertop beside Jaime.

"Dude, this _is_ the mission," Roy said, his eyes rolling as well. "We've got time to kill, and this is the least awkward conversation we've had all day."

"Roysicle's got a point," Jason said. He kicked his feet idly, trying to remember the last time he'd hung out with people his own age and just talked. He couldn't recall. "It's not like we have anything else to do."

Tim sighed, relenting. "Fine. Do you seriously want to watch _I Love Lucy_, Bart?"

"It sounds campy and crash, so yeah, let's do it." Bart grinned, and elbowed Jaime gently. "How about your place, _ese_?"

"Uh, I don't know how my parents would feel about it," Jaime said nervously. "They… don't really know you guys."

"And this is what we get for putting so much reliance on a hollow mountain," Jason sighed.

They had to keep each other amused for a few hours. Jason never got especially bored, because he often had to amuse himself when alone at the manor— when he wasn't blacking out, of course. Having company made it easier. It did. The mere presence of people who were willing to talk to him, and didn't consider him to be the cast off Robin— that made it so much easier to sit idly and wait. Jason was glad, and he was relieved, and mostly he just felt a strange weightlessness that came with teasing these other heroes.

After awhile, they hid inside stalls and got changed. Jason had his uniform in a backpack, and he kept Tim's in there as well, so he had to toss it over the stall. He wasn't comfortable in the closed space, and he didn't want to say anything, in case someone decided to tease him about it, or think him unfit for the mission because of his claustrophobia. He ended up putting his helmet on just so he could breathe the filtered air, and he curled up on the toilet seat, his heart hammering in his chest.

_I'm going to screw something up, and then Nightwing will take me off the Team_, Jason thought numbly. _That's just how my luck is. I think I can do something, but I can't, and I get in trouble for trying._

Being in his suit felt nice. He felt powerful again, not weak and helpless and broken. But the power was dampened by the fact that he felt like he was suffocating. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to stand being in the cramped little stall, and when he closed his eyes, he was hit was an onslaught of dirt and his breath hitched, and he had to bite his tongue to stifle a scream. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but the pale gray stall door, and Jason had to grip the walls to keep himself from toppling off the toilet.

A quick series of soft smacks against the toilet paper dispenser in the stall beside him jolted him from his pain-filled reverie. He blinked, processing them as simply noise. But after a minute, they repeated, same pattern, and Jason blinked in surprise. _Light smack-heavy smack, light smack-heavy smack-light smack, light smack. Oh. Oh!_

_.- .-. . / -.- - ..- / - -.- .- -.-_

_Are you okay?_

Jason took a deep breath. He was sure the others knew Morse code— it wasn't exactly hard to pick up. But Tim was doing it just fast enough that the beats were probably just noise to anyone except maybe Bart.

He drummed a reply fast before Tim could repeat his message again.

_..-. .. -. ._

_Fine._

He paused, body tensing. He made a split second decision, and he sort of instantly regretted it.

_- ... .- -. -.- ..._

_Thanks._

"What the hell are you two doing?" Roy called from a few stalls away.

"Practicing percussion for the school talent show, Speedy," Jason shot back. Only he had his helmet on, and the setting automatically scrambled his voice, giving it a metallic sort of _ting_ as he spoke. "Shit."

"Whoa, Red! Is that you in the helmet? Crash! Can you say, '_Luke, I am your father'_?" Bart asked eagerly.

"Bart," he said, keeping the voice scrambler on for just a moment longer, "you are a fuckass."

"Not crash at all, man." Jason could hear Bart drumming his feet against the floor. "Aaagh. Can we _please_ start the mission now?"

"Fine— yes. Go."

Jason hopped up, springing from his stall a little too quickly. Luckily he wasn't the only one, because Arsenal and Impulse were already out as well. He looked at Tim, and he smirked. "Aw, look at you being all stealthy."

"You should be in stealth too," Tim said indignantly.

"The building is _white_," Jason sighed. "It's not like it makes a difference what colors I wear at this point."

"We have orders to be in stealth mode, _hermano_," Blue said.

"Yeah, orders from Nightwing, which I usually take _cum grano salis_."

"Y'now, I crash all modes," Impulse joked. "Now, uh… where… exactly… ouch!" He winced as Blue elbowed him in the chest, and his red and white uniform melted into somber tones of ashen and black. "Thanks… uh, cum grande what now?"

"_Cum grano salis_," Tim sighed, glaring at Jason. "It's Latin. With a grain of salt."

"Okay, in my defense, I think we should all appreciate that I remember anything from Latin I."

"That's not a defense, and _please_ go into stealth mode."

"Okay, okay," Jason said. "But don't beg, okay? It's kind of pitiful."

"I don't really care with you."

Jason wasn't sure if he should treat that as endearing or not. He poked the red bird on his chest, watching as it turned a deep inky color. His brown jacket, however, stayed the same color, which Jason felt made him triumphant. "I'm not taking it off," he told Tim. "And you can't make me."

"You're really a pain in the ass, you know that?"

Bart gasped. "You made Robin curse!" He was suddenly in front of Jason, grabbing his hand and shaking it. "You, my friend, are a true fiend. Congratulations."

Tim sighed in exasperation. He jumped when Roy clapped him on the shoulder, smirking slightly. "Okay, leader, what now?"

Tim looked up at him, and took a deep breath. And then they deployed.

Jason had missed the rush. The feeling of danger creeping, but always too slow, and knowing it would be too slow. He loved it, and he loved knowing that he was doing something for the good of the world as a whole. He was making a difference, not just for himself, and it made him so, so, so happy. He was really doing it. He was getting better. That made him smile, and remember what it had been like when he had first became Robin.

That felt so long ago. He felt decades older, when it had really just been four years. Time tends to warp when you die. He remembered the feelings, but nowadays all that emotional crap… it was too hard. It hurt too much. He wished he could just turn everything off most of the time, but he couldn't. Not now, not anymore. This was the price he had to pay for life. This was his curse, and his gift, and this was the punchline to the worst joke.

Arsenal took care of the cameras while Tim fiddled with his holocomputer. _That was me and Artemis once_, he realized. The thought made him sad. _Am I playing Dick's role now? Is Dick playing Bruce's?_ He didn't know, and it made him scared. He wasn't Dick, and Dick wasn't Bruce, and Tim wasn't Jason. If he kept thinking like this, he would only hurt himself. _I miss Bruce. I wonder if he's okay…_

The underground lab was bathed in a faint pink light. The tubes the criss-crossed along walls were churning bubbling pink-tinted liquid, and it made Jason a little sick to his stomach. The Reach's scientists chattered and clicked to one another, their language a flippant mix of bug clacking.

"What's she saying?" Tim asked Blue.

The boy stared for a moment. "Okay, uh… she's warning her technicians to go easy on the additive... Just a sec." Blue Beetle's eyes grew a bright, and an orange glow melted over his irises. "That's it, that's your additive."

But Tim was already gone. Jason let him slip away, watching him closely to pick up any mistakes. Tim made none. _He's everything I wasn't_. Jason tried not to be bitter. He liked Tim, even if he was kind of a nosy little shit.

"Where did he—?"

"Shh," Jason and Arsenal hissed in unison.

Tim Drake didn't fool around. He was ages older than he looked, and he understood when to do things, when not to fool around, and when to follow orders. In short, Tim Drake was everything Robin should be. Everything Jason wasn't. If Dick Grayson was the first, the best, the compilation of the impulsive nature and clever tactics and startling bravado, then Robin had been split in half when he'd shed the cape. The rash, stupid, mouthy, thrill-seeking part of Robin had rooted itself within Jason Todd's young heart. Before the Joker had squeezed it until it bled dry, anyway. Tim Drake had taken everything else about Robin, the wit and the wonder and the caution and the skill, and he'd become everything Jason wished he could be.

_I bet Bruce was thankful when he realized that you're nothing like me_, Jason thought, watching Tim reappear beside them. _I bet he was glad, 'cause the less you fuck up, the safer it is to care about you._

Maybe that was why Bruce had never been especially close to Jason. Not compared to Dick, anyway. Sure, they'd bonded, and Bruce was… _is_ the closest thing to a father Jason Todd ever had. But he'd always kept a careful distance, and was unnaturally harsh with Jason when he trained, or went on missions. Because he knew. He knew how impetuous Jason was. He knew that it would be his downfall one day.

And Jason couldn't even blame him. Bruce had tried so hard to help him, but not even Batman could stop nature.

"Got what we came for," Tim said, jerking his head at Jason. Jason was very grateful for his helmet now, because without it, Tim would see just how disgusted Jason was with himself. "Let's go."

They all moved on instinct. Jason knew this mission was a test more than anything else, to make sure he could handle the pressure. He could. He knew he could. He wasn't going to fuck up, not again, not so soon. Not when Tim was here, being the _perfect_ little bird. Jason could settle for second best, just so long as it meant he could do _something_.

Jason was lagging behind the group, scanning the area for tobacco. Just because, you know… it could come in handy as evidence? Yeah, he didn't know what he'd tell Dick if he even did find some— which he didn't, sadly. He'd probably just tell the truth and say that he missed smoking. It was a horrible habit, yeah, okay, he was a piece of shit for wanting to start it up again, but damn. It would chill his nerves to just have the paper and the weed and be able to just roll his own cigarettes. Not even smoke them. It would be a comfort to just have them, just in case things got bad.

He actually jumped when the explosive went off. He blinked, padding himself down fast to make sure he hadn't accidentally dropped anything. "I swear that wasn't me," he said, stepping behind Tim and Arsenal as the entire facility went to shit around them. Tim hissed through his teeth, turning on Arsenal, his body coiling with tension.

"You blew the lab?" he gasped, his voice breaking in distress. Jason's gaze swiveled to Arsenal, and he felt indescribable relief. _Holy shit, I can't be blamed for this_, he thought smiling to himself. _Damn, I can enjoy this so much more now!_ "But this was a _covert op_! What were you _thinking_?"

Tim's voice was pitifully high as his stress completely fell into his tone, his shoulders going rigid as he curled into himself. "Since when has this team ever know the meaning of covert," Jason murmured under his breath.

The way Arsenal was smiling was eerily familiar. "That I'm not about to let Lex Luthor and his alien space buddies poison the world, just because we don't know exactly what poison they're using." Jason watched Roy his eyes narrowing a little as he pursed his lips behind his helmet. Oh, Dick was going to have his hands full with this one. Jason would have to let Roy know just how lucky he was that it was Nightwing at the head of the Team, not Batman, or else he'd be armless again. "Plus, I enjoy making Lex miserable."

"Don't blame you," Jason said. If the Joker had been anywhere near as sophisticated as Lex Luthor, Jason would probably be a terrorist at this point. He had to give Roy his credit, he held back a lot of rage.

Impulse took care of both guards before Jason even realized he was gone. There was an alarm somewhere blaring, and it was giving Jason a headache, so fiddled with his own computer, his eyescreens lighting up with a plethora of different codes and jumbled data. He sorted through it easily and found what he was looking for, muting the alarm before it did some serious damage to his brain.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Tim asked, his fingers sliding against the keypad to the locked door. "You went off mission. That was a huge mistake!"

"Funny." Jason winced at the familiar voice, and he slipped behind a shelf, closing his eyes. "I was about to say the same thing."

"My luck," Jason murmured to himself, his head cocking back against the plants behind him. "My motherfucking luck."

There was no way they were beating Black Beetle. Jason had about zero confidence that a team assembled for very, very simple recon would be able to take down the opponent that had pretty much decimated the entire Team in one sitting. Not to mention, Jason was responsible for taking Black Beetle's eye. When the bug realized who it was under the helmet…

"Well," he breathed. "Guess I gotta go out with a bang."

Again.

Jason slid away just as Tim was flung into a rack of plants, toppling it over and collapsing with a grunt. Jason bent down, glad to find Impulse distracting Black Beetle, and he shook Tim's shoulder gently. He winced and rolled onto his side, gripping Jason's arm for support. He looked up at him and nodded briskly, pushing off him and springing back into the fight, staff in hand.

"I may not move as fast as you, meat," Black Beetle said after easily smacking Impulse into a tomato stand. "But my scarab processes faster than even _you_ can run. Let alone _think_."

_I would love to tear it off your back and watch it squirm as I crush it_, Jason thought. It startled him, how malicious the thought was. He tried not to dwell on it He noticed that the damage he had done to Black Beetle's eye was not incredibly prominent. The armor hid the eye from view, but Jason could see that one screen was completely opaque in comparison to the other.

He didn't know why he felt so satisfied.

Arsenal was making good use of the prosthetic weapon attached to his arm, and Jason grimaced as Black Beetle came out of the smoke utterly unharmed. He dug through his coat, snapping a trip batarang in half, careful not to touch the coiled cord within. Just as Arsenal kicked up a laser, slicing through Black's armor in a brilliant fashion, Jason aimed the batarang and flung.

It caught Black Beetle around the legs, and the giant merely laughed, as if the wire coiled around his legs was nothing but a bit of cobwebs. And then the acid Jason had carefully rigged the batarang to emit began to corrode Black Beetle's armor around his knees, and Jason flipped back into a spring, kicking off the Beetle's back— only it caught him. By the head.

Jason panicked. Fear flooded him as he hung limply in midair for a moment, and the next he flicked a command in his suit for the helmet to release him as the pressure built inside of it, cocooning around his neck and sending him gasping. He landed on the floor, his neck aching, but otherwise unscathed. Then, he looked up, and he saw Black Beetle was still holding the helmet.

_Bye bye, Hood_, Jason thought, shoving his hand into one of his pockets and flicking a detonator. _Hardly knew ye_.

It blew in a flurry of ash and red shards and a glorious hiss and screech of armor melting and melding. Jason jumped back, staggering a little from a sharp blow to his side, and his body curled as Blue unleashed a cannon blast. It did… absolutely nothing, except clean off the armor.

"Shit, I hate this guy," Jason hissed. The fact that Black Beetle could mend his armor made things ten times more difficult. Impulse dashed forward, slipping into a funnel as he zipped around and around and around, circling himself. Jason moved closer to Tim, but stopped when pain lanced all up his chest cracking and ebbing all along his ribs. When he pressed his fingers to his side, the red tips of his gloves came back damp and redder. A bit of shrapnel from his helmet must have caught him.

"Blue, what gives?" Robin gasped. "Last time you threw down with this guy, you were hardcore!"

"That wasn't me!" Jaime insisted. "Scarab was in control!"

"So give it control again!" Roy snarled. Jason merely watched, and wondered. On one hand, Blue's scarab could save their scrawny asses from a major beat down. On the other…

"Don't make him give up control of his body," Jason told Roy, his voice biting. "It's not worth it, okay?" He knew that he only cared so much because his own bad experiences with memory blanks and odd blackouts and the voice in his head that was his own, but not quite.

"Not exactly like we have many options here, Hoodie," Arsenal snapped. "And whatever issue you have, there probably isn't much comparison to a— what do you call it— a _parasite_ able to take control of your brain."

"Arsenal, don't start on him," Tim croaked. "He's right, we shouldn't make Blue do it if he's not comfortable. Also, why was there a bomb in your helmet, Red?"

"Uh…" Jason tried to hold himself in an inconspicuous manner. "You know… for stuff."

"Well if any of you come up with any bright ideas," Arsenal said, the whites of his mask slitting. "You know, feel free to bring them up. Like, now would be great."

"Your laser," Tim said, stepping up behind Arsenal as Impulse was struck by a giant staple. _That is so impractical,_ Jason wanted to moan. _Why does it keep working? _"It's the only thing that's done any damage."

Arsenal seemed more than happy to oblige.

"Oh," Jason murmured, as he watched the armor melt back into itself. It was just armor. There was tissue underneath. _Soft _tissue. He reached into his boot and withdrew a knife he'd hidden— you know, just in case— and he grabbed Tim by the cape.

"What are you doing?" Tim choked as Jason sawed at the fabric, tearing away a long strip of Kevlar and linen. It ripped, and Tim spun around, nearly running into Jason's knife. He ducked last moment though, thankfully, and the blade barely nicked his cheek.

Jason shrugged. His side didn't hurt that much, but if he wasn't quick, the blood would begin to show soon. He sifted through his jacket pockets and found a little bulb. It blinked dully, all ready to detonate. Jason blinked as Tim grabbed him by the arm and flung him to the side as Black Beetle shot a plasma blast at them.

"Ever hear of the tale of David and Goliath?" Jason asked, sliding his knife back into his boot. His face felt bare without his helmet, but at least he still had his mask. He slipped the little spherical bomb into the strip of fabric he'd stolen from Robin's cape, and he jerked his head at Roy. "Can you keep him busy?"

Arsenal glanced at the long strip of cloth, and he smirked. "Only if you split the cost of property damage."

"As if, you piece of shit, this is all your fault."

"Oh, please," Roy scoffed, his arm clicking as he shifted his ammunition. "You're _enjoying_ this."

"What are you going to…?" Tim asked, his eyes going wide. Then they narrowed. "You know what? I don't want to know. Just don't kill him."

"Yeah, yeah." _Well, maybe_, Jason thought, swinging the cloth around and around. The little bomb stayed cushioned within it. Tim glowered at him, and Jason sighed. "I promise I won't! Jesus, birdy, your faith in me is like, less than none."

"You put a bomb in your helmet." His voice was dark. Scathing, even. Accusation rang there, and it hurt. _You want to kill yourself_, the tone spat. _You want to leave us again._

"Just go do your thing, Robin," Jason said, his makeshift slingshot spiraling to the point where it was beginning to whistle from the impetus.

The boy seemed to only emit sadness after that. Even as he turned away, Jason could feel it rolling off him in soft waves of gloom and distress. Jason did not dwell on it for long, though, because the pain in his side jolted him into reality, and he saw Black Beetle turn toward him, mouth opening to make a remark. Then he seemed to recognize Jason, his one red eye flashing.

"Oh," he said, his gravelly voice vicious. "_You_. You know, I think I just might gut you, mea—"

The bomb whizzed through the air, and Black Beetle staggered for a moment, gagging as the bomb smacked the back of his throat. Arsenal whistled beside Jason, and they exchanged looks of alarm. "Uh, should we run?"

"Probably," Arsenal said.

They ended up looking one last time at Black Beetle, and exchanging a pair of the most maliciously delighted grins to ever grace their features. Then they ran, just as the wall blew.

Jason knew the bomb wouldn't kill Black Beetle. Or at least, it shouldn't. It would probably sting a bit, slow him down a lot, and make him cough some blood. But otherwise, nothing instantaneous. Jason knew it was awful, and Batman would never, not in a million years… but still. The more time Jason spent dwelling on himself, the more he realized he didn't care. Sometimes pain was a necessary weapon, and it should be utilized.

It had made him learn from his mistakes, after all.

_I want everyone to feel the pain that I felt_, he realized, stumbling as the pain in his side consumed him, mingling with the pain in his heart and head, and his bones ached as he felt the world press up against him, hissing the truth into his ear. _I'm a monster_.

The crime was his. He was the fatal flaw, the loose link, the bullet that would break them. He tried to take a deep breath, his nerves on edge, but the bitter rural air flushed his lungs, and he began to cough as it scathed his throat, too bitter and too clean. He was selfish, and obscene, and he knew it. He hurt them just by living, and he tried so hard, but he couldn't make himself go back, not to a place where everything was dark and crushing.

Someone shook him, and he could taste something wet on his tongue as his body shuddered, seized by the violent hacking coughs that sliced against his throat. "What the hell is wrong with him?" Roy gasped. Jason realized that he was the one shaking him, and he could _feel_ the panic sloshing around in Arsenal's tone.

"This…" Tim had him by the arm, and Jason could see him through hazy vision. "This happens sometimes. N-not the coughing, the… he's not responding to us, because he's not all here. It happens sometimes. I can carry him."

"Are you kidding me? You can't run with him, Rob, you're sort of lacking the Kryptonian strength and speed to make away safe." Roy grabbed Jason around the chest, but recoiled with a shout. Jason flinched to, and he dropped to his knees, his body snapping as a sharp, coppery tang slipped against his tongue. His chin was wet as he wheezed, wet with metallic fluid that stained his ashen, cracked lips, deep and hematic. "Shit, he's bleeding!"

"What?" Tim blurted.

"Why the hell didn't he say anything? We need to check out the damage—"

"Uh, dunno if we have the time, _ese_!"

"You don't know if we have the time to make sure our teammate isn't bleeding to death?"

"You _know_ that's not what I mean! Black Beetle—!"

"He'll be occupied with whatever damage Hoodie's bomb did to his innards," Roy said. "But not for long."

"Flip him over and get his coat off," Tim ordered. "If he starts fighting, we'll tranq him."

"_Dios mio_…" Blue breathed. "You think he'll be that bad?"

_Am I that bad?_ He curled up against the grass, his body quaking as Roy jerked him onto his back, tugging on his jacket. He was breathing heavily, his heart thundering against his ribs, and his throat felt as though it was aflame. Aflame, and itching, and terrible, and rasping. _I'm horrible. Ha ha ha. I'm _horrible_. I want to be okay, but I'm not, and I'm so horrible— and you should be horrible too. You should all be horrible, like me, because then you'll get it. You'll understand. You'll feel what it's like to be hated and tossed away and buried and broken and used up. You'll be wasted potential. Ha! Am I that bad? _

"Something must have triggered him," Tim said. "Arsenal, what did Black say to him?"

"Something about gutting him."

Jason could feel fingers pressing against his side, and his eyes snapped open. "Leave it," he hissed. "_Leave_ it!"

"Red…" Tim was hovering above him, looking pale and startled. "I can't. Blue, there's something imbedded in the wound, can you—?"

Jason sat up, and Tim grabbed him by the shoulders, wrenching the knife Jason had wriggled from his boot free from his hand. "Red, wake up!" Tim growled, bloody fingers grasping him by the throat. "Wake _up_!"

"Ugh, this is gross, okay… got it," Blue said. "Pulling it out on three."

"Don't count," Tim commanded. "Just do it. Now. Please."

Jason felt the pain. It was sucking, pulling, tearing at him from the inside, and he screamed, his strangled voice singing through the night, stretching on and on. The pain wasn't instantaneous. It was drawn out_, ripping_, and he flung his head back, breathing in flame and shrapnel and blood— he tasted laughter in the air, and then he tasted his own screams_. Ringing, ringing_, bouncing off the walls and closing in tight on him.

"Red, stop," a voice pleaded through the ringing, the ticking, the soft _beep, beep, beep— Oh, god, I'm gonna die._ "Stop screaming, it's okay!"

"Did I—" another voice choked, "Did I hurt him that much?"

"No, Blue, you did great. He's just… sensitive." Jason could feel delicate hands numbing the pain with quick tricks. "Red, listen, it's okay now, but you have to wake up!"

His body went sort of limp, and he felt his breath tingling in his lungs, fresh and sharp and rasping. He moaned, and he curled up on his side. "I… I…" He clutched his head, his body quaking in shock. "Oh, god… where… where am I… again…?"

"Smallville," Tim told him, his voice breathy. "We're in Smallville. Jay, come on, it's okay that you're hurt right now, but we've gotta go."

"Oh…" _Is he leaving me?_

"So get your possessed ass up and running, Hoodie!"

Jason sat up, his eyes flashing at Roy's face. Then he gasped, shuddering as pain shot through his abdomen. "Oh, ow…"

"Did you even notice you had this in you, _hermano_?" Blue asked, holding up a jagged, blood slick piece of shrapnel. His entire hand was splattered crimson, flecks of red splashing against the cobalt of his suit. Jason felt a little guilty for it.

"Yeah… I thought I—" He coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. "I thought I could handle it."

"You're ridiculous," Tim growled, grabbing him by the arm. Jason was surprised. "You're such an _asshole_, Jay! It's okay to say that you're hurt!"

"I thought that I could handle it," Jason repeated.

"You thought wrong!" Tim looked away, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubbed his face tiredly, blood smearing across his cheeks and nose and lips. "We need to go. Now. Red, get up."

Jason staggered to his feet, and Tim held him by the arm. Bart was watching him, Jason noticed, and he didn't look especially surprised. In fact, he looked a little sad. "Uh, Black's getting up," he said, shifting from foot to foot.

"Then we need to go."

"Cornfield, or cornfield?" Impulse asked, his eyes flickering to the surrounding maize.

"Cornfield," Tim hissed, throwing Jason's arm around his neck. Jason felt a little embarrassed. He could run on his own. He _could_!

The corn was thick, and it smacked him in the face, and made him feel itchy and claustrophobic. "I'm good," he insisted, pushing away from Tim. "I can stand fine!"

"I don't care!" Tim sounded angry, and it… was truly scary. "I'm not taking the chance of you intentionally hurting yourself again! I'm through with it. Just shut up. I don't care for what you think you can do right now."

It was sudden, and it was startling. Tim wasn't the type to get angry easily— not like Jason. Jason honestly could not remember Tim ever snapping at him. Not once. Sure, sometimes he was cold because of a comment made by Jason, but… this was otherworldly in his eyes. And it's how he knew he severely fucked up.

"Do you think he's up and running yet?" Arsenal asked as they sprung into a clearing. Jason was glad, but his side was _aching_. _I'm so stupid_, he scolded himself. "Or maybe if we're lucky, that bomb got him in something important."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what I can live through," the familiar deep, gravel-like voice of Black Beetle rasped. Jason winced. "Now, I think I owe you meat your due."

"How eloquently put," Jason spat. His ears were ringing.

Blue Beetle jumped back, crying out in shock, and they all spun around to see… yet another fucking Beetle.

Jason groaned, his head falling against Tim's shoulder. "I hope the next one comes in _vicious trollop_ red," he mumbled.

"Not the time, Red," Tim hissed.

"It's the color Catwoman wears."

"Sure…"

"No, seriously," Jason whispered. "I've borrowed her lipstick before. I know."

Tim looked at him, his bloody face scrunching up in confusion. "Why—?"

"If you ever wondered, the Nightwench looks pretty hot in drag."

"Please— _please_ just stop talking."

Jason did. But only because his vision was fading in and out, and he was losing control of his sense. The scent of blood and corn mingled together in a flush of bitter rivulets and buzzing wafts. He held onto Tim, his fingers, dragging against his cape as he wobbled on his feet, his vision fluttering between hazy, dizzy, dim images, and total darkness.

"I'm okay," he murmured. "I'm okay. I'm okay…"

The last thing he saw was Tim's blood smeared face, lips parted in shock and pity. The last thing he felt was his limp body being hefted onto someone's— Tim's, presumably— back, and his head slumped against the shredded Kevlar cape, the scent of blood and sweat and linen and tears choking him.

* * *

"What _happened_?" Dick gasped, bending down before Jason. They had instructed Green Beetle to take them to the Kent Family's farm, but Jason wasn't responding to anyone. Upon arrival, Tim had immediately began working at closing Jason's wound, which was only covered by a thin strip of Tim's cape. He'd asked Jonathan Kent to bring him a dish of hot water and a cloth, as well as disinfectant if he had any. By the time Dick had shown up, Tim was carefully sewing up the wound.

"Red Hood blew up his hood," Tim said, his voice catching in his throat. Jason's blood was in his mouth, acrid and cold by now, and it made Tim sick. It reminded him of when Jason had sliced his hand open and splashed his blood across Tim's face just to spite him. "S-some of the shrapnel caught him. The shard barely missed his lung."

"I want a full mission report," Dick said. His voice was dangerously serious, and frightened Tim enough that his hands began to shake as he squeezed Jason's skin together, the needle between his fingers slick with blood. Dick seemed to notice, and he relaxed, gently pulling the needle from Tim's fingers. "Here. Just keep holding the wound closed."

Tim watched as Dick stitched Jason up within a few seconds, expertly threading the skin tightly enough to lock the blood within the sewed up skin. Tim only relaxed after Dick pressed a hand to his shoulder, squeezing it for a moment. "Please don't blame him," Tim whispered, his head bowed. "This was… circumstantial. There was no incident until after Black Beetle… after Jason fought him. I think he would have been fine if he'd fought any— anyone else. I don't know…"

"I understand." Dick stood, his mouth a thin line of distaste. "But this exactly why I didn't want him going on a mission, Robin."

"He was doing fine!" Tim hunched over, not able to meet Nightwing's eye. "Don't take him out of commission again. You _can't_!"

"Robin, if you had waited a few minutes longer to stitch up that wound, there wouldn't be anyone to argue over anymore," Nightwing said steadily. Tim stared at Jason's pale face, his mask still stuck tightly to his eyes. "We lost him once. I'm not taking the chance of losing him again."

"You'll lose him if you do this," Tim said. He looked up at Nightwing, his eyes wide and pleading. It would be more effective if Dick was able to see them. "He'll just… he'll just lock himself up again."

"We'll talk about this later," Nightwing said, turning away from them.

"No!" Tim cried, jumping to his feet. Dick froze, his shoulders tensing up. "You have to give him another chance! You can't… you can't do this, because if you do he'll just think that… that he did something wrong, and that you're mad at him!"

"Robin—"

"You promised you'd listen," Tim said desperately. "So please, _listen to me_. Give him one more chance."

Nightwing looked at him. There was a stretch of silence, and Tim could feel the eyes of his friends on him. But he couldn't care. It was… this was Jason. Jason deserved more than this. He deserved to have the freedom to choose how he wanted to live the life he'd been given. Dick couldn't take that away from him. He would just be allowing the Joker to win by tearing away the thing that kept Jason Todd smiling.

"Alright," Dick said softly. "One more chance. But this time, I'm approving every addition to his uniform, and double-checking his utility. I also want a report on his behavior, as honest as you can get. Got it, Robin?"

"Got it." Tim smiled a little to himself, feeling satisfied. "Oh, wait!" Tim pulled the additive he'd collected from his utility belt. "Um, on the bright side, mission accomplished?"

Dick watched him, and he laughed, the sound of it fluttering and free, and his smile made his face look years and years and years younger. He took the additive, shaking his head slowly. "Good work," he said, his voice carrying his approval. Tim could only smile back, his body going lax in relief.

Dick went to go speak to Jonathan Kent after that, and Tim sat beside Jason without saying a word. Arsenal ended up wandering over, hovering over Tim's shoulder for a few minutes before Tim looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"You know, blaming me for his mistake is kind of bitchy, if you ask me," Arsenal said, folding his arms across his chest.

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't gone off mission," Tim replied, his voice carrying the weight of his irritation. "He was doing fine. For the first time since I met him, he was doing _fine_, and you screwed it up."

Arsenal watched him, his own eyes narrowing. "How was I supposed to know how unstable Hoodie is? You never told us, and you expected me to just assume that, oh, this asshole might have a panic attack? Please."

"Yes, you should have assumed," Tim hissed. "You of all people should know how he feels, Arsenal."

"I'm not a panic attack prone zombie," Arsenal spat. "We're nothing alike."

"Whatever. I'm sorry for blaming you," Tim said, turning back to Jason. "But someone needs to look out for Red, and your actions are the reason he almost just died."

"He's the one who put a bomb on his head," Arsenal said, his lips twisting. "Again, not my fault."

"Don't tell me that you don't have a self-destruct button on your arm," Tim said, his eyes not leaving Jason's face.

"I don't."

"You're lying," Tim said. He stood, turning to face Arsenal. "But the thing is, I'm not going to tell Nightwing. Because I don't care. You know, you two are way too alike, and that's how I know you're lying, and that's why I'm not telling. But I swear to god, Arsenal, if you pull a stunt like this again, and someone else gets hurt— and— and you know, Red's my brother, so I think I have the right here to be a little pissed— if you do anything like this again, I'll make sure you _pay_ for it."

The whites of Arsenal's mask slipped into slits, and he pulled a tight smirk. "Will you?" he asked, his mocking tone dripping in disdain. "So scary, Rob."

Tim might have flinched if it were not for his irritation. He was angry, but not angry enough to lash out. Still, his lips twisted into a frown, and he stiffened a little. "Arsenal," Tim said. "Listen to me very carefully. If anyone else on this team gets hurt because you decide that mindless destruction is okay if it's directed at a bad guy— and yeah, Lex Luthor did something— something _unforgivable_ to you— but still. If that happens, I'll personally make sure you never get the chance to get the retribution you want for your kidnapping and maiming."

Tim didn't stick around to get a response from him. Because, honestly, Tim could care less what Arsenal thought. Tim bent down once more, just to check Jason's pulse, and then he walked away. His face was uncomfortable from the blood crusted against his skin, and red flakes fell whenever he moved his lips, falling like dust. Tim wanted to like Arsenal, but… but after what had happened, Tim was scared. Jason was volatile, and so was Roy, and that combination was a disaster waiting to happen. If Tim had known the likeness of the two before the mission, he'd have requested Jason to be put on a different mission, maybe.

Jason's happiness was too brittle. For a while, it had seemed he had been truly enjoying himself, and then… and then it all went to hell. Tim wasn't surprised that Jason had programmed his helmet to self-destruct. He was only sad, and angry that he was still so unhappy. That death was still an option for him, that life was still too hard for him to take in one gulp. If Tim could help Jason battle his demons, he would do it in a heartbeat.

Tim was by Jason's side again by the time he awoke. The not-quite-dead boy blinked thrice before swearing and curling up into his unscathed side, his hands pressing against the wound. "What the hell…?" he groaned. He looked up at Tim, and he swore again. "Shit, shit, shit, what did I do?"

"You blew up your helmet, and almost got yourself killed," Tim informed him, pressing a hand to his shoulder to steady him as he sat up. "You had a… um, fit, too, but it didn't last long. You have some internal bleeding, though, so we have to check that out when we get home."

Jason groaned again, his head falling back in exasperation. "Can't I just…" he murmured, his voice thick, "Can't I just… just do _something _without fucking everything up?"

"I'm sorry, Jay," Tim said. Jason shook his head, letting it drop into his hands.

"What's wrong with me…?" he whispered. "What's _wrong_ with me?"

Very slowly, Tim wrapped his arms around Jason's shoulders. He went rigid, his bony shoulders tensing and hunching. Then, he relaxed, and his fingers crawled upward from his face, to his hair, scratching and clawing at his scalp in frustration and fear and confusion. Tim could feel him shaking, and he could feel the sound of his breath as it rattled and rasped.

"Nothing," Tim said. Jason shook his head mutely. "There's nothing wrong with you, Jay."

His laugh was wet, and it was sad, and it was pained. "You're a _liar_," he spat. Tim knew that his eyes would be teary if they were visible. He could hear them in his tone.

Tim didn't answer. He closed his eyes, and he felt Jason lean into the embrace for just a moment before he tore himself away, turning his back to Tim and hugging his knees to his chest, his shoulders trembling.

At breakfast the next morning, Jason pretended as if they'd never gone on a mission at all.

* * *

There was a place in his mind where Jason liked to go. It was pretty, and it was sad, and it was small. He liked it there, though, because it was the only place where the fire hadn't ravaged, the only place where scars weren't gouged deep into his entity. Jason went there when he was too weary to carry on. When the bad things consumed him, he could only crawl to the good things and pray that they would heal him just enough that he could carry on.

"Hey, Jay," Dick called from up above. It was snowing ash. It tasted bitter, and he tried to shoo it away, but it burnt his skin when he touched it. The tree was thick, and gnarled, but Jason loved it. _Mom took me here once_, he remembered. _When I was little, and she was sober. Sorta._ There was a tire swing hanging on the other side of the great ebony tree's fat, snarled trunk. It swung from side to side, to and fro, but there was no breeze to push it. It was pushing itself.

"What are you doing?" Jason asked, craning his neck to find Dick amongst the twisting black branches. Gray ashes licked his cheeks, fiery tongues lashing against his pores.

"Playing. Wanna come up?"

"I'll just fall," Jason admitted.

"That's not true," a voice gasped from behind him. Jason spun around, his feet kicking up dust and ash and a flutter of stars.

Tim stood with wide eyes, his clothes in tatters, and blood splashed against his pallid face. His image flickered in the flurry of ash, sputtering like a faulty television screen, and between flickers Jason could see Tim's face and body warp from dilapidated to intact.

"Yes it is," Jason insisted. "I can't climb. Not up to where Dick is. He's too high, I'll just fall. I always do when I try."

"You're making excuses," Tim sighed. "I can do it. So can you. Come on, let's go together."

"I said I can't!" Jason snapped, stumbling back. "Go away! I don't want you here!"

"Come on, Jaybird," Dick whistled. Jason's back bumped against the tree trunk, and he shook his head. "Come on, you can do it!"

"No…"

"Jason, you won't fall," another voice said. It was sweet, and soft, dulcet and tender. Jason looked up, and Barbara's face hung above his, her legs locked around a branch above her. She reached down, her red curls sliding against her cheeks. "Let us help you."

"I don't need your help," he hissed.

"Yes you do," Tim said. "Let us help you!"

"No!" He spun around, his body hugging the trunk of the tree. "No, no, no, no, no! Get away from me! None of you are real! Get away!"

"Jason."

He stiffened, and he felt the ash slip onto his tongue, sliding down his throat and squeezing it closed. The tree began to crack beneath his fingers, and fire and shrapnel licked and clawed at his fingertips. Jason let go, and he turned around, his head bowed. Then, he looked up, and the ash turned into rain.

"Bruce," he choked.

In the man's arms was a bundle of black and yellow and red, shredded and trembling. Bruce looked down at Jason with dead blue eyes, and his face was lined with age and sadness. "Jason, what have you done?"

"What?" Jason blurted. The rain was salty when it hit his tongue. Like tears. "Nothing. I did nothing!"

"That's right," Bruce whispered. His voice carried above the pattering of rain. "You did nothing. And now look what happened."

Jason took a few tentative steps forward, and he saw the face beneath the bundled Robin cloak. He looked away immediately, feeling sick. "Tim…" he said. "But… but I didn't mean to… Bruce, this isn't fair! You left! You left me alone again, when I needed you most! This isn't my fault!"

"You should have protected him," Bruce said, his voice low and dark and rumbling. "You should have protected him the way he protected you."

The tree behind him splintered apart, exploding into a million fragile pieces, piercing Jason through the back and shattering the pretty place into a billion little shards. It forced Jason onto his back, his eyes snapping open, and he laid there for a moment in shock.

_A dream_… he thought. _An actual dream. And the Joker wasn't in it at all._

For some reason, despite how jarring the dream had been, it faded fast. The thought of it stayed with him, though, and he was glad for it. He could not remember the last time he'd had a dream so surreal. It made him miss Bruce, though.

Jason wandered downstairs, his bare feet padding against the floor as stepped into the dining room. But Tim wasn't there. Jason stood for a moment, confused, and he then looked around. The manor was quiet, and he scrubbed at his eyes, relieving them of crust from his slumber. Jason left the room in silence, staring at the ground until he passed a clock.

He'd slept until ten.

He stared for a moment, his mouth falling open. "Alfred," he called, spinning away from the clock. He didn't know where the old butler was, so he could only shout for him. "Alfred!"

Alfred appeared only a minute or so later, his eyes gleaming with worry. "Master Jason," he said, his voice gentle. "You're awake."

"Is that clock right?" Jason asked, gesturing blindly behind him. "Did I really sleep until ten?"

"Well… yes, sir. Master Dick thought to wake you, but Master Tim and I advised against it. Though, I'll admit, you did startle me— I was just about ready to wake you and take your temperature." Alfred smiled, and it was kind and warm, and it made Jason smile a little too.

"I'm not sick," Jason said. "I… I just, um… overslept, I guess."

"Did a dream keep you?"

Jason looked down. "Yeah…"

"Well," said Alfred, nodding to Jason. "I hope it was a good one."

"It was… okay. Better than usual. Can I have some toast?"

"Of course, sir. Come along. Would you like jam today?"

"That'd be nice."

* * *

Jason was given a phone later that week by Dick. His contacts were predetermined, and it was pretty much the entire Team plus Alfred, and some Leaguers. Jason decided to ignore the phone for the most part, and he focused more on reading. He left his room more, though, curling up at a window and thumbing through books he'd planned to read before his death.

One afternoon, while Tim was at school, and Dick was out doing whatever he did when he wasn't at the manor, his phone began to buzz. Jason looked up from his book, staring at the cell phone in bewilderment for a moment. He kept it with him all the time only as a precaution. Just in case he… he did something, and he couldn't make it to Alfred.

He set the book aside, his mind settling on the idea that it was Dick texting him. Jason had been very far off.

_hey_

A one worded text from Roy Harper. The original, of course. The clone probably didn't even know he was alive again. Jason sat for a moment, not sure how to respond. He remembered the boy well, and the fact was, he had been actually pretty fun to talk to. In a masochistic sort of way. The guy was pretty much an ass, but Jason wasn't picky.

Jason decided to reply. _What do you want?_

He waited, and wondered why Roy wasn't enrolled in school yet. He could probably get into school easily through a different first name and a few fake records. Jason was dead. No new name would make up for it. Not in Gotham, anyway.

_can't i just say hi?_

_actually no i'm lying_

_what are you doing right now?_

Again, Jason was too startled to reply for a minute. _Holy shit_, Jason thought, stunned. _He wants to hang out with me._ Jason couldn't recall the last time someone had invited him to do anything of that sort.

_Why?_

The reply came.

_because i was just super frigging curious_

_sorry my sarcasm isn't computing across text_

_meet me at the dunkin in star city central mall_

Jason sat for a few moments, his mouth falling open. How did he even begin to comprehend this? Was it a joke? Had Jason done something wrong? In the end, he decided he didn't give a fuck, because he had nothing to lose.

_Asking someone out over a text is tacky, Harper._

And the reply buzzed on schedule.

_hilarious_

_also you're not my type_

Jason couldn't help but smirk. He typed, _What a shame. Gosh, I'm crying myself the Tiber River in tears._

_k so are you coming?_

He leaned back, and he pondered for a moment. He sighed, and sent his last reply.

_Yeah. I'll be there._

Part of him wished he'd just said no.

In the end, he had just left. There had been some internal debate after getting dressed on whether or not to ask permission, but then he realized he actually didn't care whether or not he was allowed to go or not. So he left. Not without writing a note to Alfred first, though. Because Jason didn't want a fiasco, and the butler was often his only company for hours and hours and hours and hours.

He'd zeta'd to Star City. It was much brighter than Gotham, but it still had that naturally unnatural urban tang, and though it was sunny, the city was still not quite pristine. There was smog, despite the gleam of sunlight against skyscrapers. It was warm, much warmer than Gotham, but not warm enough that Jason felt he should take off his sweatshirt. No, it was just a fine city. It was fine.

He made it to the mall without a problem. He was uncomfortable being all alone in a crowd though, and he nervously ducked away from people yards away. By the time he reached the Dunkin Donuts, he was scratching at his knuckles, cracking the skin enough that little lines of blood smeared against his fingers, and he breathed heavily.

Roy was sitting by a window, watching him with an empty gaze. Jason took a deep breath and moved forward, plopping down across from him.

"Well, you look like shit," Roy observed.

"Thanks," Jason sighed, wiping his stinging knuckles in his jeans. His aviators were slipping against the bridge of his nose. "So, not that I'm not totally _flattered_ or anything, but what do you want?"

Roy watched him for a moment, his fingers, brushing against his coffee cup. He then averted his gaze, glancing out the window as he tipped his chair back. "Nightwing found out that my interference with the mission is what made you go nuts," Roy said, his lips twisting bitterly. "He told me that Black Canary thinks I should talk to you. Because we've been in _similar situations_, or some bullshit like that. He said if I don't learn how to play nice with other people then he'll have to bench me."

Dick hadn't told him anything about this, so Jason was startled. He sat for a moment, the soft chatter of the people around them filling the gaps in the silence. "Oh," Jason said. "I'm… sorry?"

Roy rolled his eyes. "Not your fault, or your problem," Roy said. "But I kind of want to stay on the Team. So, here we are."

"I can't help you," Jason said honestly. "I'm still trying to wrangle my own issues. I can't help you with yours."

"I don't want or need you to," Roy said. He took a swig of his coffee, and his face scrunched in distaste. Jason figured out that it was probably cold. "I didn't ask you to come here so you can give me advice, or something. You're kind of the last person in the world who could give me anything useful, anyway."

"So why did you ask me here?" Jason's eyes narrowed. "I mean, it's not like I was busy, or anything, because only a handful of people know that I'm not laying six feet under, but still."

Roy's chair settled back onto the floor with a soft _clack_. "I just… wanted to know, I guess," Roy said slowly. He grimaced, likely annoyed at the way he sounded. "If you actually know how I'm feeling."

Jason stared at him. He didn't know what to say. He felt awkward and sad, because Roy was cool, but he wasn't sure what he meant. Jason had died. No one, not even the crippled Roy Harper, could understand what that felt like.

"I don't know," Jason admitted. "How… are you feeling, exactly?"

"Shitty."

Jason smirked. "Yeah, okay. Elaborate, dumbass."

Roy sighed, his eyes narrowing a little bit. They watched each other, and Jason could see the muscle in his jaw jumping in irritation. "I feel fucked over," Roy said through gritted teeth. "I— if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god, Hoodie, I'll put you back in that grave."

"Who am I going to tell?" Jason laughed, and it sounded bitter and disgusted. "I don't have much contact with the outside world, and Nightwing is barely around."

"Robin?"

Jason shifted in his seat. Tim Drake was… Jason didn't even know. Tim was mostly just someone that Jason clung to as a means to keep himself sane. If Jason had to say he wasn't using the boy, he'd be lying. But, hey, Jason didn't really care much. The way Tim was, he was sort of asking to be used.

"I won't tell him," Jason said. He smirked, and flicked his index finger twice across his left side. "Cross my heart."

"Wow," Roy said. "That makes me feel so much better."

"And hope to die again."

"Whatever, Hood," Roy scoffed. "What the hell, then. Ever since I got… liberated, I guess, I feel like I don't even belong here anymore. Like, most people know the… clone me, and they've known him for years, and… you know, I think they like him better."

Jason looked down. The truth was, Jason did know how Roy felt. That was the odd thing. He truly could empathize, because… because that feeling of desolation, the heart-wrenching realization that you'd been replace… it was awful.

"You think that," Jason said, his voice very quiet. "That… that no matter how hard you try, you're still gonna be second best, so you just stop caring. Right?"

Roy stared at him for a moment. He scowled, his shoulders hunching forward. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, pretty much. So, you're jealous of Rob, then?"

"He's a little shit," Jason sighed. "But… I don't know. He's a lot better than I was. Smarter."

"Doesn't seem like it'd take much."

"Ha," Jason said dully. "Ha ha."

They sat in silence for a minute or so. Jason looked down at the table, and his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He ignored it, his mind reeling back and forth, puzzling out the conversation they were having. Roy was fine to talk to. Jason felt that he had the same sense of humor, and therefore was pretty adequate to be friendly with. But, still, Jason was tired, and he was awkward, and he had no idea how to act.

Jason looked at his phone after a few minutes, and he saw that it was past time that Tim had been released from school, and the text confirmed it. Tim's message was short, but Jason could practically feel the panic beneath those words. It made Jason feel a little guilty for not saying more in his note to Alfred.

_Where are you?_

Jason sighed, and gave him a short reply.

_Later._

Roy watched him with tired, narrowed eyes. Jason stared back, and they both seemed to come to a standstill. The silence wasn't incredibly uncomfortable, but it was nagging, and Jason didn't want to be around so many people anymore. Roy was fine, though. He did understand, and Jason could see it, but he didn't understand enough. That was the problem.

"You're lucky," Roy said.

Jason blinked confusedly. "What?" he asked, just as his phone buzzed again. Tim's message lit up the screen. _Are you okay, though?_ Jason replied with a flick of his fingers, _Yes._

"You're lucky to have them," Roy said, folding his arms across his chest. "They're not going to give up on you. You're lucky you have that."

Jason stared at him, and he looked down at his phone. It lit up once more.

_Okay. If you need anything, just text me._

For a moment, Jason was stunned. The truth was, he had not thought of himself as lucky. How could he? He didn't feel very lucky at all. But… perhaps Roy was right. After all, Jason couldn't say what he would have become if he hadn't had the care of Dick, and Tim, and Alfred, and even Bruce for a little while.

"Oh," Jason said. He watched Roy Harper, and he couldn't help but feel a stab of pity for him. _I'm not alone_, Jason realized. _But he is._

He decided he took his family a little too much for granted.

* * *

Tim felt bad for Jason. He was benched until his wound was fully healed, and he seemed to get only more and more antsy as time wore on. However, his spirits were higher, and there were less incidents. That was something great, and Tim couldn't help but be excited about it. Life went on just about the same, otherwise.

Until he was pretty much assaulted by Stephanie Brown.

He hadn't been _stalking_ her, exactly. Stalking was such a harsh word. He'd been investigating her home life— which he found out was not satisfactory at all. After seeing her missing posters taped up around Gotham Academy, he'd been prompted by his curiosity, as well as his worry for the previous Reach captive's well being.

Anyway, he ended up finding her on the streets. He didn't want to approach her immediately, because she didn't know Tim Drake, and she might consider Robin to be a threat. So he waited and kept tabs, making sure she didn't get hurt, and had a place to crash every night.

Sadly he wasn't as inconspicuous as he'd thought.

He'd been following her discreetly. Or at least, he'd believed himself to be discreet. He'd underestimated her skills of observation, though. She was too tiny to be anything close to intimidating, but he found out the hard way that she was _fast. _Tim had thought to just watch her, to make sure she got out of an alley unscathed. He hadn't expected to be assaulted.

It was a metal beam that struck him in the shoulder. It had been aimed at his back, but he'd heard her last moment, and he'd realized that he'd allowed her to get behind him. Tim gasped, stumbling back into the alley wall. The blow had hurt, and a sharp tingle ran throughout his arm.

"Whoa!" he gasped, ducking as she swung at him again. "Whoa, wait!"

She was thirteen now, he remembered, and she was still far too tiny. Easy prey for any pedophile— or at least, she appeared that way. It became obvious to Tim that he'd underestimated her far too much. Looking at her now, she was thinner than he'd last seen her, and her hair was pulled back from her face with a headband and an elastic band. She was wearing the same jacket she had worn when they had first met, and the same scarf, but her shirt was black, and she wore jeans and boots.

To his immense relief, she had paused in her next swing. She stared at him for a moment, her eyes glowing for a moment in fear, before she steeled herself. "Why do you keep following me?" she asked, her lips pulling into what Tim assumed was supposed to be a scowl. It looked more like a pout.

"I—" Tim flushed in embarrassment. He was glad Bruce wasn't around for once, because he just knew that this would get back to him somehow. "I… saw your missing poster. Um, Stephanie, right?"

She looked startled at that. She stared for a moment, and she took a step back, nodding slowly. "You're…" She squinted at him, and then dropped her metal beam, smiling sheepishly. "Uh, oops. Sorry I hit you."

"It's okay," Tim said, his surprise seeping into his voice. "I-I mean, I kind of deserved it. I was being a creep."

"Yeah," Stephanie said, biting her lip. "Just a little."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, staring at each other incredulously. "Um…" Tim swallowed, rubbing his warm cheek and looking away. "I'm sorry I was following you. I was just… trying to make sure you were okay."

"Why?" She looked at him, her eyes very large and very wide. "I don't know you at all. Er… no offense."

"Yeah, I know, but…" But we were both kidnapped once, and I just wanted to make sure it didn't happen again. "But, well… I just… I saw you, and recognized you from the missing poster, and I… I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright."

"I'm fine," she said, blinking at him. She looked a little suspicious, but Tim couldn't blame her for that. He'd be more than skeptical if he were in her shoes. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Then why did you keep following me?" She folded her arms across her chest, taking a few steps back from him. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Oh." He felt so embarrassed, because this entire encounter had just gone so horribly wrong. "O-oh, um… Tim. My name, it's—"

"Tim." She stared at him, and she laughed. "Caught that. Soo, Tim, since you know, you were stalking me—"

"I wasn't—!"

"— Do you think you can do a gal a favor and buy her lunch?"

Tim stared at him, trying to figure out if she was being serious or not. But she'd averted her gaze, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, and Tim knew she was not joking. He felt for her, and for her struggle, and he understood why she jumped at the opportunity to have a hot meal.

"Yeah," Tim said. She looked up at him, stunned for a moment. "There's a diner down the street. Look, I know this sounds creepy, but I did some research on your dad—"

"Okay, cool, let's go!" Stephanie cried, spinning around and darting out of the alleyway.

Tim stood for a moment, his mouth still hanging open, and he hissed in irritation. He was so _dumb_! How the hell was he supposed to cover this up? A guy could only lie so much about his reasons for following a girl around before the truth— the harmless truth— came out. And Tim couldn't tell her about being Robin. That'd just get them both into trouble.

He rushed to catch up to Stephanie, his sneakers clapping against the sidewalk as she slowed beside him. She was watching him warily, her large blue eyes darting between him and the ground. He felt bad. He had no intention of making her nervous, but of course he'd screwed up anyway. He couldn't blame her. Considering the way she apparently lived, trust was something that needed to be earned very carefully.

They were both very quiet as they settled across from each other in a booth at a small diner that smelt of grease and cobbler and chicken tenders. She stared at him, twiddling her fingers against the synthetic paneled tabletop. She tugged her scarf up to her chin, her lips pressing thinly together as a waitress took their order. Tim asked for nothing but french fries to spare Stephanie the awkwardness of eating alone, while she asked for waffles.

"What?" she asked, rocking back in forth in her seat as he stared at her incredulously.

"It's… it's like, dinner time, though…"

"I haven't had waffles in months," Stephanie said, scowling at him. "And you're like the last person in the world who should be judging me right now, Mr. Stalker."

"It's not like that at all," Tim murmured, his cheeks feeling hot. He hunched forward, looking down at his hands so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "I was just making sure you were okay."

"But I don't know you," Stephanie said, sounding exasperated. "I've never seen you before in my life, and you just thought, oh, better help this gal, she looks homeless."

"Are you homeless, Stephanie?" he asked, looking up at her worriedly.

She squinted at him. "Don't have a home," she declared. "Just places to crash until my dad finds me again."

"Yeah, about your dad…" Tim trailed off, biting his lip. He didn't know how to talk about it.

Her eyes searched his face, and she stiffened a little. "What about him?" she asked slowly.

"Does he…" Tim took a deep breath. "I mean, I… I did some research on him. I-I do that. Research. I'm, uh— good at it, I guess."

"Okay…?"

"Well…" He stared at her, sinking into his seat. "Well, I saw that… he has a history of domestic violence—"

"Stop."

He did. He saw her pale, her big eyes growing wider and wider until she looked like she was about to cry. Tim felt awful about it, and he slumped in his seat. He stared at her was she fiddled with her scarf, nervously tugging it farther up her neck. Something struck Tim, and suddenly he felt sick. "Stephanie…" he said quietly. "That… that scarf…"

She looked at him sharply. "Yeah?" She dropped her hands into her lap. "What about it?"

"Can you… um, I mean, aren't you… warm? You should take it off."

"I'm fine," she said. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned back against the backrest of her booth.

_She's hiding it,_ Tim thought bitterly. "You don't have to protect him," Tim said gently.

"I'm not!" she gasped, jolting up straight.

"Then take off the scarf."

"No!" She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "I don't have to do anything for you. I could walk out of here right now, and be on a tram to Metropolis in an hour."

"You won't," Tim said. She looked at him, her eyebrows rising. "Well, for one, I'm paying for your dinner. But, um, also, I think I can help you."

"I don't need any help," she grumbled, blowing a piece of pale hair from her forehead. It had slipped from her headband, and it curled against her brow.

"That's why you can't afford dinner, right?" Tim gave her a meager smile as she glared. "Sorry, sorry, that was mean. Uh… but, yeah, if you let me, I think I can help you build up a case against your dad."

She looked at him as if he had grown a multitude of heads and decided to breathe fire. "Look," she said, smiling a little. "You're really sweet and stuff, but I've already tried. My dad sent me to a psychiatrist for compulsive lying once, so my word means less than dirt to the police— let alone a jury. You've got nothin', Tim. Nothing from me, anyway."

"I've got a camera," Tim said. "And you've got a bruise."

She stared at him, and her body went rigid as the waitress came around, setting a plate of waffles in front of Stephanie. Tim stared at the blonde girl, and he turned to the waitress. "Can you take a picture of us?" he asked her. The waitress blinked at him, and glanced between them and smiled warmly.

"Ah," she said, her head cocking. "Sure, I can do that."

Stephanie said nothing as Tim dug through his book bag, withdrawing the camera he'd gotten for Christmas. He slipped into the booth beside Stephanie, listening as she took a deep breath. Carefully, she unwound her scarf, setting it between her legs and Tim's. He saw the waitress pause for a moment, glancing up at them for a moment. Stephanie leaned closer to Tim, and she breathed through her smile, "Jerk."

Tim took his camera back, sliding carefully out of the booth as the waitress gave Stephanie one last look. Tim glanced at her, and he was sickened to find that he'd been correct. There was an angry purple bruise that stretched around Stephanie's slender neck.

"It won't do anything," Stephanie told him with a sigh. "If you really care, then we probably need to catch him in the act of doing something criminal. Worse than child abuse."

"Worse?" Tim's eyes widened. "Stephanie, I think this photo will be enough for the commissioner to arrest your dad."

"I doubt it."

"No," Tim gasped, "seriously. He has a daughter. She's really close to my brother, and… and, well, I know Comissoner Gordon. Mistreatment of children to him is pretty high up on his list of unforgivable crimes."

Stephanie said nothing. She merely stared at him, and then she dug into her waffles, her eyes downcast for a while. After devouring two waffles in under two minutes, she slowed down enough to lean back and take a deep breath. "Okay," she said. "If you really want to help me, you should probably know— my dad isn't just a… um…"

"Child abusing scumbag?" Tim offered. She smiled weakly.

"Scumbag is a good word," she said. "But, like… he's done more."

"I figured," Tim sighed. "Hmm… well, if it's—" He stopped, his phone buzzing softly in his pocket. He blinked, and shot Stephanie an apologetic smile, pulling out the phone and glancing at the caller id. "Um… sorry, hold on."

"It's fine," Stephanie said through a mouthful of waffle. Her words were muffled, but he caught them.

"Jay?" Tim asked, turning his face away from Stephanie. "Are you okay?"

"_Are you on a date_?" Jason asked, his voice verging on amused.

Tim froze. He looked up at Stephanie, startled for a moment, but she seemed completely oblivious. "Um, _no_?" he all but choked. "What… what even gave you that idea? Just because I'm home late…"

"_She's cute_," Jason observed. Tim's eyes widened, and his head snapped back, looking wildly around the diner. "_Hey, isn't that that chick? Steph, or something, from when we got kidnapped. Damn, Timmy, didn't think you had the balls_."

"Are you _here_?" Tim gasped, feeling anxiety prickling at his stomach. Sure, he could do the watching all he'd like, but he hated being the recipient. It made him feel inadequate. "Jay, what the hell…?"

"Is that your brother?" Stephanie asked, smirking at him. "He sounds fun. I can already see the resemblance. Stalker and stalker."

"_I'm across the street_," Jason admitted. "_I was really craving a croissant_."

"Somehow, I'm doubting that story," Tim sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and he glanced at Stephanie. "Don't… don't go jumping into traffic, or anything. I'll be there in a sec."

"_I didn't mean to interrupt your date_," Jason teased. "_And I'm not going to. Seriously, I just wanted a croissant, but Alfie was all like_," Jason breathed, his voice lilting into a faux British accent, "'_Oh, noo, sir, I'm so sorry, we haven't any croissants, but I'll be certain to get them!' But I really, really, really wanted one, so I just said, you know, fuck it, and took Dick's bike_."

Tim couldn't help but smile. "You could have called me and asked me to bring a croissant home for you, you know."

"_I'm sorry I wanted to get out of the house_," Jason scoffed. "_Shit, I need to compensate this normal deed by freaking out! Yeah, lemme just go find a building to jump from, hold on_."

"Have you been watching this entire time?" Tim asked, watching Stephanie's eyebrows rise questioningly. "You can come in, you know."

"_I'd rather not. Wearing my sunglasses, so… yeah, that'd be awkward. And I can't risk taking them off because I'm… well, you know, dead. If someone recognizes me, it would suck_."

"Okay, okay," Tim groaned. "Whatever. I'll meet you in a few minutes."

"_Cool. Don't tell Dickie-bird I took his bike, though, I think I might have scratched it_."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Of course you did." He hung up after that, and he looked to Stephanie with a wane smile. "Um, yeah. That was my brother."

"Is he outside?" Stephanie's eyebrows stretched upward. "If you need to go, it's cool. Thanks for the waffles, and stuff."

"I'm serious about helping you with your dad," Tim said. She looked at him, her eyes softening, and she smiled.

"I dunno, Tim," she said, pulling her scarf back over her shoulders. "I'm okay on my own, y'know?"

"Yeah, um…" He scratched the back of his head, feeling too guilty to leave her on her own. "Just out of curiosity, do you actually have a place to sleep tonight?"

"Yes," Stephanie said, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "Like I said, I'm okay on my own."

You shouldn't be, Tim thought. He stopped her before she left, jotting down his phone number on a napkin after paying. "If you need help with anything, you can call me," Tim said, folding it up and handing it to her. She grinned up at him, her body bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Aw," she said. "Golly, a boy gave me his phone number. How will I ever adapt?"

"Erm…" Tim shifted awkwardly on his feet. He tried to smile but when he realized how odd the entire situation was, he sort of just wanted to crawl under a rock and never face any girl again. "I-I'm sure you'll figure it out. But… I'm still going to investigate your father, Stephanie."

She nodded, shrugging a little bit. "Hey, if you can catch him, then I owe you big time," she laughed. "Thanks again, I think. I mean, this was fun. Aside from you being a total stalker, and prying into my personal business, and you know, being an all around creep."

"Um, right. You're welcome. I think."

She grinned at him, and waved as she left. Tim gathered his things and left behind her, watching her go from the doorway. He would have to speak to Barbara about this. Stephanie didn't deserve to be alone, and she certainly didn't deserve whatever abuse was delivered to her at home. Tim would have a lot of work to do, but he knew he could get Arthur Brown behind bars if he wanted to. Without even putting on a cape.

_She trusted me more than she should have_, Tim realized. It made him sad for her. She truly deserved more than she was given.

Jason was across the street, leaning over the handles of Nightwing's bike. Luckily no one seemed to notice it, or care if they did. Jason smirked as Tim frowned at him, standing before the bike with his arms folded across his chest. It was odd to see Jason so casual in public. In fact, Tim could not recall ever being in a public place with him when it was not a mission. It cheered Tim up considerably. He's healing. Somehow, he's getting better. Little by little.

"Did you dress like that on a date, Timmy?" Jason asked, his tongue clicking. "Ouch, I'm ashamed to share a house with you."

"It wasn't a date," Tim sighed. He looked down, feeling uncomfortable and confused. Yeah, it had looked pretty… odd, but it hadn't been a date. Tim was sure of it. He didn't even know Stephanie Brown, not really. He just felt an obligation to look after her, all things considering with the Reach kidnapping. She was a Gotham kid. That was his jurisdiction.

"You gave her your phone number."

"How did you even see that?" Tim gasped, cringing a little. "And it wasn't what it looked like! I just wanted to make sure she'd have someone to contact if she ever got into trouble!"

Jason pushed his aviators down over his nose so Tim could see the incredulous look in his gauzy blue eyes. They were lighter than usual. Still cloudy, but brighter, and more focused, it seemed. Tim liked the sight of them. It made him feel as if he was talking to Jason Todd, Robin, the boy Tim had aspired to be like for so, so, so long.

"Well at least you have good taste," Jason said. "I think she's out of your league though."

Tim groaned, slapping his hand against his forehead. "I am not going out with her," Tim said in a strict tone. "I was just trying to help her out. She's a runaway, Jay, she doesn't have any place to go."

That seemed to catch him. He stared for a moment, leaning back in his seat. "I thought we knew that already," he said quietly.

"Well, yeah," Tim sighed. "But it's… more complicated than that."

"She's a street kid," Jason said. "Like me. So what?"

"Her dad hurts her," Tim blurted. Jason's face remained impassive, but when Tim looked into his eyes, he could tell the words had struck a cord. "That's why she's constantly missing. She keep running away, but… I don't know, I guess she goes back?"

"We shouldn't talk about stuff like that," Jason said quietly. "Not here, anyway. Come on, let's go home."

Tim stood silently, giving Jason a steady glare. In the end, Jason matched it two fold, and Tim sullenly climbed onto the back of the bike, refusing the helmet when it was offered to him. "If you're driving, you get the helmet," Tim urged. "Also, you're still injured."

"Fine, whatever," Jason sighed. He slid the helmet over his head, handing his glasses back at Tim. "Crack your head open if I crash. See if I care."

"I'll be fine," Tim said. He smiled a little, slipping the aviators onto his nose. "I'm in better shape than you."

"Shut up, you twat."

* * *

It was a chilly April night, and the patter of rain against Kevlar hummed against his ears, testing his durability. Could he handle it? Could he handle the sensual onslaught, the fluctuating battle between smells and sights and sounds and feelings? There was a mist that floated drowsily around his helmet, and he could almost feel the precipitation sliding against the red paint.

Tim wasn't a very talkative stakeout mate. He stood at his perch, and simply waited. That was so odd to Jason, who was used to the excitable nature of Dick Grayson as a partner whenever not working alongside the cowl. Tim was so quiet, so serious, it was unnerving to say the least. Jason found himself getting anxious fast. He knew who was out tonight.

They'd been ordered to stay behind until given the clear while Harley Quinn ran about, gallivanting her way through Gotham. Harley wasn't as bad as the Joker, but she wasn't someone to be underestimated. She packed a mean punch when it came down to it. And the fact that she was saner than the Joker… well, it made her either an asset, or a huge pain in the ass. Usually the latter.

Jason knew he had to be patient. He knew all about circumstance. He just hoped he could hit it all at the right time. Play a gambit well enough that it would pull through. He was no Batman, but hey, he'd been raised by him. So… perhaps there was a chance. Jason couldn't be sure. But it couldn't hurt to try.

"Aren't you cold?" Jason asked, making trivial conversation with his fellow Robin. The boy was rigid, and Jason could see rivulets glistening on his forehead, raindrops slickening his cropped dark hair.

Tim shrugged. "Suit's insulated," he said.

"What about your face? It's pretty pink, birdy." Jason was telling the truth. Tim's cheeks were tinted a rosy color, but the light of the city washed him out completely, forcing him to appear gaunt except for the splotchy color of his nose. Perhaps he was getting sick.

"I'm fine," Tim said. "I've been in colder places."

"But Batman always makes us cover our faces when it's below freezing," Jason pointed out. He paused. "Or, at least, he did. I don't know if it still applies."

"It does. But it's not below freezing." Tim cocked his head, his body tucking into his cape. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worrying," Jason grumbled, slumping a little bit. "I was just curious."

"Sure," Tim said, smirking a little bit. "Were patrols like this when you were Robin?"

"Nah." Jason shrugged, plopping down on the wet roof, splashing water into the air. He didn't mind much. "It was way more exciting, since I was usually with Batman. And when I wasn't, I was with Dick, and… well, we weren't exactly the type of guys to sit back and watch, y'know?"

"Oh, yeah," Tim said, his smirk stretching into a grin. "I noticed. The two of you are action oriented. Batgirl and I are more relaxed, I think."

"I wouldn't call you relaxed, so much as a total fricking bore," Jason groaned, rocking back and forth. "Batman didn't give you the order to stay here, you know. Listening to Nightwhore isn't mandatory."

"Jay," Tim said steadily. "We're not screwing up a patrol because you have issue with obeying orders, okay?"

"But—"

"I'll push you off the roof."

"Oh, you wouldn't dare, Timmy. You don't have the balls."

Tim looked at him, his eyes narrowing a little bit. The rain drizzled around them, skewing Jason's vision as he turned to gaze out into the Gotham skyline. It was all a blur of white and yellow and red and gray, mist and darkness pulling and warping the lights into something surreal, as if out of a hazy dream. The sounds and shouts and bustle of Gotham nightlife was drowned by the pitter-patter, and there was a tug, and a whisper, an urge to run and run and run, and let the rain do its work and wash him clean, outside and in. But that was silly.

_I'm not Robin anymore_, he thought sadly. _I can't do stuff like that. I don't think I would even enjoy it._

Jason curled up, watching raindrops splash against the roof beneath him. He wasn't a child anymore. There was a vestige of despondency that plagued him when he realized the truth— that he'd been so naïve and happy and optimistic, a child to the core. And all of that had been torn apart with a crowbar, and a bomb, and a struggle _up_ and _up_ and _**up**_. He wasn't that happy kid anymore who could shriek and run and fly. He couldn't even pretend he knew who that kid was anymore.

"How's the Stephanie thing going?" Jason asked casually. In his head though, he was screaming, and he needed to distract himself in order to remain calm.

Tim's lips pressed together thinly, and he said nothing for a moment. "Her dad's Cluemaster," Tim said.

"Oh, gross." Jason wrinkled his nose, but he knew Tim couldn't see it. Jason's helmet had been kept away from him for a while, and Dick had still scanned him for unauthorized explosives before leaving. It had been a real bummer. "So… should we bring him in?"

"Cluemaster hasn't done anything in over a year," Tim sighed, rubbing his face tiredly— a sign of distress, Jason had picked up. Whenever Tim was anxious, or overworked, he tended to cover his face. Jason figured he just had trouble masking his emotions, so he tried to hide them in different ways. "I'm still trying to figure it out. Stephanie's mom left about a year and a half ago— right after the arraignment on Arthur Brown was dropped. That left Stephanie alone with a criminal, and… well, the more I think about it, the more I start remembering how Artemis got into crime fighting."

Jason looked down, the mention of Artemis making him squirm a little. "You think he used her to do heists and shit?" Jason asked slowly. It made him sick to think about, but… it made sense. At least he didn't train her to be a killer.

"Maybe," Tim said. "Or maybe he was just training her to follow in his footsteps, and she got fed up. I don't know, because I haven't got a clue what's up with him, and Stephanie hasn't contacted me. But it would explain the bruises, and why she goes missing every few weeks."

"Or maybe he got addicted to something," Jason offered. Tim grimaced in response. "I mean, addicts are… unpredictable, and… well, they loose interest and things that made them… content before the addiction kicked in."

"Ugh," Tim groaned, looked away from Jason. "That… makes sense. God, I hate this. I hope she's okay."

Jason looked down at his knees, his mind distorting itself. He couldn't remember his father— not Bruce, his real father— and his memories of his mother were all faded except for the bad things. Before… before his death, Jason had always tried to focus on the memories of his mother's smile, and the happier times, but now… he could only remember her fits of rage, and her denial, and… he didn't want to think about it. Maybe he should just forget about her altogether.

"Calm down, Veronica Mars," Jason teased. "Your teen sleuthing shit will win out in the end."

"Please stop referencing things I've never heard of," Tim pleaded, looking disgruntled. "I can never tell if you're insulting me or not."

"Nah, Veronica Mars is a teen detective. Good show. Dick and I watched it a few years ago, one week when we both caught this bug going around the Academy, so we just raided Netflix for like, four days straight, it was great."

Tim looked down at him, and he smiled warmly. "You really did stuff like that?" he asked. He sounded a little dejected, which made Jason shifted awkwardly against the rain.

"Well… sorta, I mean…" He sighed. "It wasn't like we had marathons every night. I don't know, we had time on our hands. We… were kids."

Tim closed his eyes. "Oh," he murmured. Silence stretched out before them after that. A sad, placid silence that was only broken by the patter of rain and the cacophony of the city below.

After a while, Dick's voice buzzed in their ears. "_Hey, Robin, Red— uh, we're a bit wrapped up_—"

"_Your choice of words are impeccable_," Barbara snarled, sounding out of breath and pained. "_Ivy's got us stuck. We'll be fine, but you two need to go after Harley before she escapes_."

"Understood," Tim said, nodding curtly to air.

"It'd be a pleasure," Jason breathed. _I hope your girl can run, you bastard._

It wasn't hard to track Harley Quinn. She wasn't exactly the stealthiest gal on the block, with her motley costume and _jingle bells_. The rain only slightly drowned out the _ring-a-ring-ring-a-ring_ of the bells, so they still found her quite quickly. The sounds of the city cracked and stirred around them, cars splashing against roadsides, chatter and sirens and distant shrieks.

They found her outside a warehouse. She was standing, her head craned, and she looked to be almost admiring it. The rain made her jester cap sag, and the bells were whistling a little bit against the softly wailing winds. Her hip was cocked, hands resting against her waist.

"Harley," Tim said, his voice going low. Jason stood behind him, his body tense from apprehension. The woman cocked her head, and the bells tittered and jangled.

"Oh," she whined. "It's the new Boy Wonder— gosh, gosh, gosh!" She spun around, a big smile plastered on her lips. "Losin' track here, puddin'— are you the cute wittle serious birdy?"

_Don't call him birdy_, Jason thought indignantly. Harley's eyes fell on him as he moved forward.

"Oooh!" she gasped bouncing up and down excitedly. "Oh, oh, wait! You're new, aren't ya? I haven't seen ya before, so you must be!" She hummed to herself, still bouncing on her feet. "Wowie, I feel so special!"

Listening to her made Jason feel sick with rage. The way she was, the way she fawned and adored the Joker— it made Jason want to tear someone apart. There was a part of him that believed he wouldn't have much trouble doing so. _It wouldn't be so hard_, his mind whispered. _Just ignore the screams and the blood and the cracking, and then everything will be okay._

"No," he whispered back. No. _No_, it wasn't true. He wasn't like that. _He wasn't_.

"You hurt someone, Harley," Tim said slowly. "You can't be on the streets anymore."

"Are you seriously trying to talk with her?" Jason asked, his voice shaky from the turmoil inside his head. "Grow up. I've got a rock more likely to listen."

"He he he," Harley giggled, her blue eyes big and excited. "Ooh, well! Hey, fellas, where's the big bad Bat? Haven't seen him around lately… oh, such a _shame_!"

Her voice was high and thin and grating. Jason wished her dead a hundred times, and wished her suffering even more. There was a strange and twisted thing inside him, and it surfaced like a leech, draining him of all morality and hissing as it bled him dry of all concerns. Except one. How would he do it? How would he make her pay for the crimes done unto him?

_Stop_, he told himself. _You don't want this. You don't want to kill anyone._

_Yes_, he remembered. _Yes I do._

"No," he mumbled, taking a step away from Tim and Harley Quinn. He shook his head, turning his face away. "No, no…"

"Red, are you—?"

Tim broke off with a gasp, and Jason spun around, his fingers flying within the folds of his jacket, slipping a batarang out and releasing it into the air faster than he had expected of himself. It missed Harley, though, and she dove at Tim with her eyes flashing, and her teeth gleaming against the streetlamps and the glare of light against rain. Tim flipped back, but she had him snagged by the cape, and he went crashing to the ground, unable to catch himself because of the thin knife that had caught his thigh.

"Robin!" Jason cried, his body jolting forward without thinking. Tim was on his feet again, but he was slipping against the rain, and his balance was thrown off by the wound. And Harley Quinn was already moving at him again.

It was stupid. They had both been stupid. Tim had been stupid to be worried about Jason, and Jason was stupid to be so distracted by his own hatred. But that hatred fueled him now more than ever, and it coursed through him with a fire so fervent that he could feel the flames lick at his insides, his stomach and his lungs, and he could taste the scorch against his tongue. He was enraged, and he was alight, fury and blaze and flurrying ash.

He grabbed her by the arm, throwing her so hard into the wall of the warehouse, he heard something _crack_, the sound splitting through the pattering rain and the wailing of citylife. He twisted her arm, and she let out a strange whimper as he wrenched the knife free, slicing it against her fingertips and digging the flat of it against her neck. She stared at him, her eyes fearful for a moment before she seemed to steel herself. That was the difference between her and the Joker. The Joker would have laughed at Jason's efforts.

"Don't you _dare_ touch him again," Jason snarled, his voice taut with unparalleled vehemence. "Or so help me, I'll open up your throat and let you choke on your blood."

"Red, I'm fine," Tim gasped, sounding horrified. "Let her go!"

But Jason couldn't. He was so furious, so disgusted with her, and himself, and the world… and he knew he could do it. He could easily slice her neck from ear to ear, and he could watch her bleed out. But then… then who would he be? Certainly not Jason Todd. He'd be someone else entirely. _I'm a monster_, he thought, his entire body going numb. _I'm a demon, and this is hell. It's all a downward spiral._

_Down_ and _down_ and _**down**_.

"Red," Tim said his fingers resting on Jason's shoulder. "Red Hood, you've got to let her go. The cops are coming."

Sure enough, Jason could hear the sirens wail against the rain. Jason decided he hated them too. _I hate everything. I want everyone to understand how awful it is to hate and hate and hate— I want the world to suffer. _

No. That was a lie. He only wanted one person to suffer.

Only one.

He slipped a card out from his jacket, the rain drumming against his helmet. It felt too stiff, too heavy, to thick to be a regular playing card. But to the naked eye? He wanted to laugh. But he didn't, because if he did, he might have to slide that damn knife through his ribs and twist it until everything stopped hurting.

He stuck the Joker card into her bloody fingers before trapping her wrists in steel cuffs. "Tell the big man I say _hello_, won't you?" he spat, pushing her back against the wall. Her head snapped backwards, colliding with cement, and he paid no mind as she gasped, her body going limp.

Jason stood over her for a moment, the knife still in hand. He debated. And then he spun around and flung the knife away, watching it sail into the rain and disappear into the mist. He breathed, his entire body aching on the inside, and he felt rotten to the core.

"Come on," Tim said, taking him by the arm. "We need to go."

Jason followed without question. He couldn't breathe. He was so frustrated, so scared, so furious with the world… and he couldn't stand it. But Tim was okay, and Jason hadn't killed anyone, so all was well, wasn't it?

Oh. If only.

"You were great," Tim told him, crouching beneath an awning. Raindrops drizzled down his cheeks, and he looked flushed, as if he was tearful. Jason knew better, of course. "You stopped yourself from really hurting Harley, Jay."

"I still hurt her," Jason said, his voice dead.

"I know," Tim sighed. "But… I get it. You need more time to sort out your anger. The point is, you stopped. And you got her. Next time just try to be more sensitive."

Jason could only stare at the ground. "Are… are you okay? The… the cut, I mean."

"Oh." Tim looked down at his thigh, and he laughed a little. "I'm fine. It barely broke skin."

"That's… good." Jason didn't know what else to say. He felt lost.

Tim watched him. They stood in the rain, and Jason pulled off the helmet, letting the drizzle catch his face. It was cool, and it stung his bare skin in a refreshing sort of way. "Jay," Tim said softly. "Bruce is going to be really proud of you when he gets back."

Jason looked at Tim, his eyes widening. He had to look away, his fear and guilt gnawing at him, threatening to devour him whole.

_Oh god_, he thought, _what have I done?_

* * *

April melted away, and warm air came in gusts and spirals and rainy afternoons. April in Gotham as gloomy and wet, a perpetual overcast staining the skies, and puddles swirling in potholes, mingling with dirt and spit and piss. That was Gotham. And Tim couldn't say he really cared for it— but still, it was his home. That meant something.

Jason had grown shaky and erratic since the night with Harley Quinn, and whenever Tim questioned it, he went silent completely. He didn't want to speak. He didn't want to do anything. He locked himself in his room, and Tim could hear him screaming from down the hall. He didn't tell Dick, though. Dick had enough to worry about.

Stephanie had contacted him, and they'd come to a compromise. If Tim could catch her dad in the act of doing something illegal, Stephanie would willingly testify against her father. But if he had no substantial evidence, she wouldn't do it. Tim didn't blame her. She wanted her dad in jail, and her word was only good for so much in court…

Tim offered up his last name, and she didn't seem incredibly surprised when she realized she was a ward of Bruce Wayne. In fact, it had amused her to no end, and she asked about Gotham Academy. Apparently she thought his uniform was cute, which he didn't understand at all, because it was just a blazer. It had made him flustered though.

Jason was okay on patrols. He didn't take any big risks, and he kept on joking, but he seemed to be sinking back into the recesses of his despondency. Whenever Tim looked at his eyes, they were clouded over, foggy windows all scratched up on the inside. Tim had a lot of wishes. But if he could have anything, he just wished he could find a way to make Jason feel alive again.

It wasn't fair, because he deserved so much more than the wrecked state he was stuck in.

"You shouldn't be doing that," Tim said nervously. He was clutching Jason's helmet to his chest, watching his brother place a roll of paper between his lips, a light blazing in the dimness of the alleyway as he sucked at the flame and smoke and death. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, smoke unfurling from his mouth and catching Tim by surprise. He gasped, and turned his face away, coughing a little.

"I shouldn't be a lot of things," Jason said, his voice huskier from the smoke clinging to the inside of his throat. "Alive, for one."

"Stop it," Tim said, his voice pleading. "It's a good thing you're alive, okay? A _good_ thing."

Jason leaned back against the wall and took another drag, the paper wilting as fire licked away whatever pain he was feeling. The gentle breeze of spring fluttered through the alley, a gust and a whistle and a whimper and a prayer. Tim thought it sounded like a plea, and he could hear Jason's voice in the silence. He could hear it through the wind, and sense it in the smoke.

"We should split up," Jason said, a wavering puff slipping from his lips as he dropped the cigarette, smothering the fire with the sole of his boot. "We'll cover more ground."

And he was screaming so loudly that Tim was scared to leave him alone.

"That's an awful idea," Tim said. Jason looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "Don't look at me like that, Red. I'm not an idiot, and I'm not letting you go off by yourself!"

"I don't need your permission," Jason spat. He tore his helmet from Tim's grasp, taking a step back. "I don't need you to be my babysitter, little bird."

"I'm not." Tim felt his heart sink at Jason's tone. "I'm your friend, Jay."

"Yeah?" Jason took a deep breath, and he sounded close to breaking. "Well a friend would trust me alone for five fucking minutes for a smoke break."

"You shouldn't be smoking anyway," Tim blurted.

Jason watched him with an impassive expression. The whites of his mask thinned into slits, and he slipped the glossy red helm over his head, shielding his expression from view.

"W-wait," Tim stammered. "I didn't mean… Jay, it's not that I don't trust you—!"

"Really?" Jason's voice was sharp, and soft, and starkly indifferent. "Okay. Sure, let's pretend that's true. Lemme just go take a piss— or are you going to watch me do that too?"

"I do trust you," Tim swore. "I'm just… I don't know. I'm scared, I guess."

"Scared of me?"

"No!" Tim stared at Jason, wide eyed and shocked. "Why would I be scared of you?"

Jason looked at him for a long time. Tim didn't know what to say, or how to respond, so he simply waited for an answer, his mouth dropping open from disbelief and shock. _I was scared of him once_, Tim remembered, the thought dousing him and guilt. _When I met him, I was terrified of him_. He wondered when that had changed.

"I'm scared _for_ you," Tim said. Jason only continued to stare. "If something happens to you again…"

"I'm not a little kid," Jason growled. "I don't need you to fuss over me. I'm not broken, and I don't need you to protect me."

"Okay," Tim said, his voice high and desperate. "Okay, but—"

"But nothing!" Jason pushed him back, and Tim stumbled, wide eyes. _Why is he so angry?_ "I don't need you here! I _don't_! I'm fine on my own!"

"What's wrong with you?" Tim gaped, his shoulders hunching in confusion. "I don't understand, what did I do?"

"You're overbearing," Jason hissed. "And I don't need you."

He keeps saying that. Who is he trying to convince? "Really?" Tim folded his arms across his chest. "You know what? Fine! Go! Go do whatever the hell it is you want to do."

"Don't worry," Jason replied, his voice so low and full of pure hatred, Tim was taken aback. "I will."

He turned and ran after that, disappearing through the streets of Gotham. Tim stood for a moment, wild eyed and frightened. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He didn't want Jason to get hurt, but… but he ran off, and now it was all on Tim's shoulders. Anything that happened to him would be Tim's fault. What had he done? He'd completely screwed everything up!

Tim smacked his forehead, groaning in frustration. "Crap," he hissed. "Crap, crap, crap, I shouldn't have done that."

He began searching for Jason from the rooftops. He leapt from roof to roof, checking his communicator, but Jason was offline. Tim knew he was worrying too much, and that Jason had probably turned it off on purpose, but… but still! It was awful not knowing, and an angry Jason was not a force to trifle with. Tim was getting anxious. He was getting desperate.

Fate had unusual timing.

"_Robin_," Dick said, his voice shaky inside Tim's ear. "_Robin, you and Red Hood need to go back to the cave right now_."

"Uh…" Tim didn't want to tell Dick that Jason had run off. "Um, okay, Nightwing, but there's… there's something…"

"Robin," Dick repeated. "The Joker's out of Arkham. You two need to get home. Now."

Tim's innards turned to water right there. He stood atop a roof, the wind murmuring sweet threats in his ears, tickling his neck and cheeks, twisting his cape around her spindly, airy fingers. The spring air was suddenly stifling, and he felt dizzy as he thought about it, his heart thundering in his throat. _Oh_, Tim realized, sickened by the epiphany. _Oh! Of course. He knew. How did he know? He played me for the fool I am, and I let him. And now_…

"Oh no," Tim choked. "Nightwing, Red ran off about ten minutes ago. I— I'm so sorry I didn't tell you right when it happened, I…"

Tim heard Nightwing swear softly. "Robin, get back to the cave," Nightwing ordered. "Go right now. We'll meet you there after this is settled."

He wanted to scream at Dick. Tim was the reason Jason was alone! Why couldn't he come to find him? It only seemed fair! But instead of objecting, he merely uttered a meek, "Okay." He could say nothing else. He was too horrified.

Tim stood for a few minutes, numb to the world around him. The Joker was out of Arkham. Tim was positive Jason had known this. It was an explanation for his behavior. It was the only thing that made things make sense, and yet it still hurt. _Get back to the cave_,_ Tim_, a voice chided in his head. It sounded raspy and sardonic. It sounded too much like Jason. _Go back and pretend like you're worthless, because you are. You're not strong enough to face the Joker. No one thinks you are_.

Tim shook his head. He didn't know. He didn't know!

_Go back and be the sorry fuck up you are._

And Tim buried his face in his hands, stifling a scream. He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know what to do!

_Go home and let everyone you love be bent and broken by the Joker. Go home and cry, birdy, 'cause that's all you're good for._

He couldn't. He couldn't do it. He couldn't because—

"Joker," Tim breathed, his hands sliding from his face, back to his sides. There he was. Just below. Was it really that simple? But the man was running, and it was growing harder to see him. Tim had to act fast. _This is a bad idea_, he thought, flinging himself from roof to roof, struggling to keep sight of the green haired clown. "Jason," Tim called into the communicator, his, finger pressed to his ear. "Jason, please, tell me where you are." _You can still back down, Jason. You can, and we can go home, and everything will be fine._

But Tim had no reply. He felt his heart ramming in his chest, pounding against his ribcage so hard that it hurt. _Tell Nightwing_, another voice in Tim's head hissed. This time, it sounded like Bruce. It was an impatient growl, guttural and terrifying. _Tell him, and let him handle it. _

No. Tim couldn't do that. Because this was his fault. This was all his fault, and it was only going to get worse if he didn't stop it.

Tim followed the Joker to a warehouse. He recognized it. It was the one Harley had been admiring the week previous. Tim felt uneasy, and he hung around, checking the perimeter and jotting down the coordinates, ready to send them just in case. He called for Jason again, but his radio merely picked up static, and it made Tim jump so badly that he almost slipped from the roof of the warehouse.

I'm supposed to be the smart one, he thought, his fingers against the comm. He ignored all the warnings in his head. He just ignored them. He was sick of it all. He just wanted to prove he could do something, and he just wanted to find Jason, and maybe this would help him. Maybe— maybe—!

He was careful. He snuck into the building, hugging the support beams in the ceiling, and he watched from a perch as the Joker stood alone. He just… stood there. As if nothing was happening. It was odd. Tim pressed his lips together, debating one last time about calling Nightwing and Batgirl in. He moved to press his fingers to the tracking device in his belt.

And then he heard the beeping.

He looked around wildly, his eyes going wide as the room got very hot all of a sudden, and the beam he was perched upon screamed as it shuddered and cracked, and he flipped in midair, gasping as he tucked himself into a roll before he hit the ground. The damage was minimal. But it still hurt.

Tim was kicked into full Robin mode, his hand flying to the small of his back, flicking the latch to release his bo staff. He pushed off the ground, flipping away from the Joker and spinning the staff in hand, crouching defensively. The Joker watched him, his grin stretching wide across his face, and he clapped his gloved hands, his laugh a shrill shriek in the hissing silence.

"Tally ho, boy blunder!" he cackled. Robin stared, his eyes flickering at the man's pallid face. He was gaunt in the darkness, lanky and gangly and jerky, like a bag of skin stuck to a popsicle stick skeleton. The Joker was all sharp angles and crazed gazes and penetrating voice. "Won't you sit? I just _know _I have some tea and scones around here somewhere!"

Robin remained stoic. It was all he could do not to panic, however. He had no idea how to respond. _I've never fought him before_, Robin thought, nauseated at the sight of the clown. _He killed Jason. He's the reason Jason can't sleep at night, and he's the reason for everything_. It was hard to feel anything aside from disgust. This man was a monster, pure and simple.

"No?" The Joker cocked his head, and he let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Oh, phooey! Well, why don't we play a game instead!"

"Not interested," Robin hissed. He took a step back, his hand sliding against his belt to activate the tracker.

A flume of gas sputtered into the air around him, and Tim felt himself lock in utter terror as he clamped his hands over his mouth and nose. He dropped his staff, staggering backwards, but the gas was— it was everywhere! It was in his eyes, and he could feel it trying to claw its way down his throat, into his chest cavity— oh no, oh no…

He was tackled, the air kicked out of him, and he gasped as the Joker sat on his chest, pinning him to the floor as the gas dispersed. Too late, though. Tim had gotten a mouthful of it, and it was scratching at his throat, leaving him feeling disoriented and itchy. Tim craned his neck, his eyes landing on his bo staff, but it was just out of reach, and the Joker— there was something biting and cold against Tim's throat, tickling the flesh beneath his chin in a way that made him want to _laugh_.

_I'm such a fool_, Tim thought, staring up at the Joker's crazed grin, his own lips curling to match.

"Now, now, birdy," the Joker chortled as Tim squirmed, his lungs feeling weighted down and blown up like two matching balloons, swelling with a great bellowing laugh that he couldn't quite grasp. "Where's Batman?"

Tim didn't answer. He stared up at him, his eyes narrowing. He said nothing, ignoring the clawing at his throat, ignoring the fire inside his lungs that licked his ribs and pressed him into the ground, promising him a fate of worms and dirt and bloody smiles.

The knife dug deeper, and Tim let out a shaky breath, feeling it bite into his skin. "Call Batman," the Joker commanded, his voice wheezy and desperate and shaking with laughter and anticipation. "Call him!"

Tim flinched as the Joker stuck a finger in his ear, pressing hard against the communicator. It clicked, and he could hear himself being linked up to Nightwing, and Batgirl, and— and maybe even Jason.

Tim took a deep breath, his eyes squeezing shut as Nightwing's voice tickled his hazy mind. There was a creeping in his stomach. There was a shrieking in his head. He wasn't sure what to do, and it was all so heavy, and yet so weightless, oh gosh, oh gosh, _oh gosh_, and it was just, so—

"B-B—" Tim stuttered, licking his lips. "Batman—"

"Tell him I want to talk to him!"

Tim was shaking so badly, he could hear himself choking on his breaths. He kept it down. He felt as though he was drowning, and there was water in his lungs, water and gas and the weighty tickle of a desperate sound. Tim took another deep breath, but the clean air only mingled with the tainted air, and he bit his tongue until there was copper sloshing in his mouth.

"_Robin? Robin? RobinRobinRobinRobin__**ROBIN**_!" Dick's voice was a distant shout.

"The Joker says," Tim spoke, his voice quivering, "that he wants you to— he he."

"_Robin_…?"

"He he he…" Tim's eyes began to water as the desperate little horrors slipped from his lips, wet and thick from the blood on his tongue. "Ha ha!"

The Joker laughed with him. Tim flung his head back, a shriek of laughter ringing in the air, and he felt it in his chest, ripping him apart from the inside and ensnaring him in a web of giggles and chortles and manic, destructive mirth.

"He wants to— ha _ha_— he he he— wants to see you!" Tim giggled. "He wants you to—"

He broke off, his laughter melting into an shuddering, pain-filled scream.

* * *

_For obvious reasons, this will no longer be a three shot. The next chapter will probably be the last, and then an epilogue I'm thinking._

_I'm exhausted right now, but I just wanted to apologize for the wait! Obviously this chapter is huge, double the size of the last one, and that's why it took me a month._

_It was a fun chapter, though, I think. I took some chances with Steph, but hey, I wanted to use her. _

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story! I'll try to update as soon as I can._

_(no seriously this is not the end, this story just has to be longer)_


	4. the ghost of your laugh

**stages of deterioration**

**{the ghost of your laugh}**

Jason had ignored Tim's voice at first. He'd turned the microphone off his communicator, and he'd been close to tossing it away. When Tim's strangled voice came fluttering through the speaker, Jason had been holding Harley Quinn by the hair, his hood hiding his lips that were curled into such a vicious snarl that it felt animalistic against his mouth.

When Tim spoke, Jason had gone stock-still, his muscles locking and freezing over, icy and rejecting all common sense. No. No, it wasn't possible. "Where's the Joker?" he hissed at Harley. She looked up at him, her one blue eye already blackening, swollen shut and reddened internally. And she grinned so big, he wanted to scream.

"Oh, puddin'," she breathed, her voice low and mocking. "Ya shouldn't've followed me."

A scream split through the communicator, mingling with Tim's erratic laughter, and Jason's entire body felt weakened and heavy. "Fuck," Jason whispered. "No! No, no, no!"

Harley tilted her head, and she shrieked in delight, her laughter ringing in Jason's head as he tossed her back against the wall, her laughter bouncing off the walls of the alleyway, slithering into Jason's heart and constricting it. There was a darkness that drowned him then, a hissing voice that bled into his head and scratched at the walls of his mind, a demon that wrecked the labyrinth he had built to trap himself in so he would be able to pretend. It took him, and it broke him, and it laughed as it did so.

A strident, wheezing voice breathed heavily into the communicator, tickling Jason's eardrum and then clawing at his insides, gnawing and pulling and ripping. "_Batman_," the voice whined. "_Your new boy blunder isn't as fun as the last one. He's too easy. Can't I have your girly bat? Oh, I'd just love to get my hands on that batty beauty— you _know_ how I love the color red!_"

_Don't you dare_, Jason thought, so close to hysterics he dove into traffic, jumping over cars and rolling over moving hoods. _Don't you fucking dare take any of them from me!_

Dick wasn't answering. Jason couldn't blame him. The fear of not sounding enough like Batman was getting to him, Jason knew, and if the Joker realized that Dick was playing at being the Batman… Jason felt sickened at the thought. He was ill, and he was scared to the point where joints were quaking. His hands, and his knees, and his shoulders. He was so scared, and there was a scream in his throat that was choking him.

"_Batman_," the Joker sang. His voice was lilting and breaking and sickeningly sweet sounding. "_Don't you care? Ooh, the shame! Baby bird, Batsy doesn't love you_!"

"Don't call him that!" Jason screeched, his voice raw as it tore from his throat. No one heard him though. He felt disgusting, and he felt hopeless. And this was all his fault. _I thought he would go home_, Jason thought frantically_. I thought… I thought he'd have more sense than me!_

"I ruined him, too," Jason murmured, jumping from roof to roof, wind whistling against his helmet.

"_Aw, well_," sighed the Joker. "_Guess we'll just have to play by ourselves, bird boy! I've got lots of games planned!_"

"Don't touch him," Jason breathed. "No, no, no, no, no…"

"_Joker,_" Dick growled, the sound of his voice startling Jason. It was dark, and it was piercing.

"_Oh, so you are there_!" The clown sounded amused, and he cackled gleefully. Then he stopped short. "_Batman, you sound funny_."

"_Let Robin go_," Dick said, his voice a frightening mimic of Bruce's. It made Jason stumble to a stop, just so he could listen. It was dark, and threatening, and it was just cold enough to inspire fear. And Dick had perfected it. Somehow, someway, in the past two years, Dick had soaked up Bruce's entire persona like a damn sponge, and now he spewed it when needed, like it was some factoid he had come across in a textbook. He was the perfect child. And right now, he was Batman.

"_Hmmmm_…" The Joker hummed. "_I don't think I will! I like this birdy, Batsy, he's so… uptight. Like… you. I love that. I want to look inside him. I want to see what makes him _tick."

Jason was shaky and scared, and he tore off his helmet, screaming into the foggy Gotham night, his voice bouncing off car horns and sirens and echoing back at him. He couldn't listen. He couldn't speak up either. Because all of his courage had gone from him. He didn't know how to speak to the Joker now that he had Tim. He had planned it, but now everything was ruined. Now… now Tim was going to go through exactly what Jason went through. How badly would he come out? The thought was a knife in Jason's gut, and it _twisted_.

"_I'm going to find you_," Dick swore, his voice so sharp, so cool and unyielding, that it sent a shudder down Jason's spine. "_And when I do, you better pray for your life_."

"_Oh_," the Joker sighed, breathy and exhilarated. "_You're _good_ at this. But_!" The monster gave a shrill rip of laughter. "_I never did get to carve you up, my little bird, did I_?"

Jason's forehead was sweaty. There were fingers running down his spine, cold, decaying fingers, bones digging into his skin and clawing at his flesh. He wanted to scream some more, but he felt sick and clammy. He was dizzy too, the sound of the Joker's voice ricocheting inside Jason's head. He couldn't fathom it. He didn't want to. He wanted Tim. He just wanted Tim back, and regret bubbled inside him, festering and puss-filled, as if someone had severed a limb from Jason and left the stump to rot.

Dick was silent for a few moments. Jason could hear him breathing, and he could hear Barbara as well. Why weren't they with him yet? What was taking them so long. _They're making the same mistakes. Just track the communicator!_ But Jason couldn't speak. He feared vomiting. Jason put the helmet back on his head, his eyescreens blinking as he ordered a GPS on Dick's signal. Then on Tim's.

"_I'll give you one chance, bird boy_," the Joker said. His voice was oddly serious. Dark. Threatening. Jason had to take a deep breath. "_Where's Batman_?"

And Dick could not answer. Jason didn't know if he blamed Dick for that. But damn, the guy tried. "_Batman's not currently available_," Dick said, his voice softening a bit in desperation. "_Can I take a message_?"

The Joker's laughter sent a sharp shudder of nausea through Jason's skinny body. It made him tip precariously at the edge of the building he was perched upon. _I should just let myself fall_, he thought bitterly. He didn't though. Because then who would help Tim?

"_Oooh, I forgot_!" The Joker snickered. "_You've got an appreciation for humor, I like that! But… that's not what I wanted to hear_."

The line was cut abruptly, and the whistle that blared through the earpiece as Tim's was destroyed was so sweaty, it pained Jason to stand straight. He had a lock on Tim's signal, and he could see Dick closing in on it, and he felt relieved at that, so he took a deep breath and told himself that it would be okay. Now that the communicator was destroyed, Jason was going by the tracker in Tim's belt— additionally there was one burrowed in his costume.

Jason moved quickly. He followed the signal, the wind whipping at him, clawing and murmuring softly in his head. _Oh, Jason_, the wind would sigh. _If you had left well enough alone, perhaps he would be safe right now. But no. you are a selfish creature by design. And rotten to the core._ He couldn't breathe, he was so panicked. Because it was true. It was all so, so true, and this was all his fault…

He got to the warehouse a few minutes after Dick. But by then, he already knew it was too late. The tracker had been turned off. Jason stood in the doorway, and Barbara looked at him, eyes wild and relieved and concerned all at once. "Jason," she said, her voice barring all emotion. Dick did not look up. He was bent upon his knees, his body bowed over a pile of crumpled clothes, a startlingly bright belt, and a drying pool of blood.

Jason stumbled forward, and he stood for a moment, unable to speak or breathe or move any longer. The clothes were Tim's. The belt was Tim's. The blood was Tim's. The fault was Jason's. And he didn't want to live with that. He didn't want to be responsible for this monumental fuck up, and he just wanted to scream.

"He—" Jason's voice came out gnarled against his tongue and lips. "He _stripped_ him?"

"And took him." Dick's shoulders were rigid, and his entire body was taut with tension and rage and— Jason could sense anguish as well. But as Dick stood, there was a strong resolve there. Jason took a deep breath. _Dick won't let the Joker keep Tim_, Jason reasoned. _Not for long. It won't happen again. It can't._

"The blood—" Jason began.

"Don't." Dick turned to face Jason, his face hard. "Tim's alive. The Joker wouldn't have taken him otherwise."

"It's a lot of blood," Jason choked, feeling lightheaded. He tried to steel himself against the guilt, but he couldn't. He was so culpable for this entire situation, he was sick. He was sickened, and ready to keel over. He was sinking, and he was falling, _down_ and _down_ and _**down**_, straight into the very heart of his despair. "I… I'm_—" I'm so sorry that I let the Joker out, it was so selfish and stupid and reckless, and you should just leave me here, lock me up until I die. It's what I deserve_. "Please tell me you have a tracker on him."

"No." Nightwing closed his eyes. "Batman was experimenting with surgical trackers, but he wouldn't allow any of us to have one installed until he was certain there were no repercussions."

Jason was shaking. He remembered the gnawing emptiness that had consumed him only weeks before. He missed it. He reached for it, and pleaded with it to come back, but it only mocked him and fed him more guilt and wishes and dreams of normalcy. "There's something I—" Jason's tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Heavy, and dry, and inflexible.

Dick watched Jason, and there was something unreadable about his expression. When Dick grabbed Jason by the shoulder, he flinched, because he thought Dick was going to _yell_ at him. What a silly assumption. No, Jason wished Dick had yelled at him. He wished with all his heart, because it would make him feel better than the soul crushing weight that dropped onto him as Dick dragged him into a hug.

"I didn't know," Dick breathed against Jason's helmet, his grip on Jason so tight that his body was aching in response, unable to mold into the hug. "For a minute I thought… I thought that both of you had—"

"I let the Joker out," Jason blurted. The air was chilly. The words were a confession that stung. They were a thousand tiny knives, all laced with poison. And they dug. And they twisted. And they drew blood and imbedded fire, rage, confusion, terror— oh _god_, what had he done?

"Jason…" Barbara said, her voice very soft. Jason couldn't look up, because he was far too scared to face either of them. Dick was still holding him in a tight hug, but something in him had gone rigid.

"I gave Harley a keycard," Jason breathed. "The last time I fought her, and then… I tracked its movement, but… Harley had it, I don't know if she still does."

Dick pulled back, his expression unreadable. "Give me the data on the card," Dick said. Ordered. _Commanded_. "We'll try it, and if it doesn't work we'll go the old fashioned route and sleuth."

"We won't make it in time," Jason murmured.

"I think we'll have more time than we did for you," Dick said. His voice was bitter. Jason didn't know who this bitterness was directed at. Perhaps Dick was simply bitter at the world. It was frightening. "The way… the way the Joker was talking about Tim…"

"He wants to make this one last," Barbara observed, her lips twisted in disgust. "The only reason the Joker killed you so quickly is because he hated you for not being… well, he said _his Robin_."

"I'm not his anything," Dick spat. Then he seemed to slump his eyes cast forward at nothing. "He knew it was me."

"He's smarter than we give him credit for."

"No, he knew from the very beginning that Batman was gone. He was toying with us." Dick bent down scooping up Tim's clothes, looking shaken. "Red, are you tracking that card?"

"Y-yes," Jason stammered. He tried to compose himself. "Yeah. Um, right, the—

the card is going eastward, um—" He couldn't. He simply could not speak properly. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

_They hate me_, Jason decided. _They'll never forgive me for this. Never_.

"It's fine," Dick said. He didn't sound convincing. Not to Jason, anyway. "Batgirl, take Red home."

"No!" Jason and Barbara gasped in unison. They exchanged a look, and Jason let Barbara take the lead. "There is no way in hell you're going to be alone right now," she said. Her voice was steady. "We've got a lead. Let's follow the signal, and then we can all sit down and talk about this like functional human beings, alright?"

"Speak for yourself," Jason spat. He was angry. He was _pissed_ beyond all recognition, and he wanted nothing more than the Joker's face on a dish, bloody and gnarled with bits of bone from his grinded skull. Barbara looked at him, and there was a spark of fear and concern and desperation there. It dispersed quickly. Batgirl knew how to wrangle her emotions. It was Red Hood who was falling apart.

"Okay—" Dick took a deep breath. "Okay. We need to move fast. I'm not— we thought we had time before, but…" His voice trailed away into something small and pitiful. It made Jason want to kick him. "You know what? Let's just go."

Jason didn't need to be told twice. He spun away his back turning to the discarded Robin uniform and the puddle of Tim's blood, which was drying up and soaking against the warehouse's cement floor. It sent him spiraling, the entire room shaking like an earthquake had seized the ground beneath them, and the room smelled like blood and loss and long since tainted innocence.

He heard something blow behind him, and Jason knew it was the bloodstain. Evidence linking back to Tim would be a horror in itself. Jason was cold and nauseated, and he wanted to scream, but there was something caught in his throat. Guilt and confusion and fear gnawed at his insides, clawing at his stomach and gnashing at his ribs.

They followed the signal of the card to an abandoned pub not far from where Jason had confronted Harley. Jason didn't know what he expected. But it still made him kick over a table, snarling in frustration when they found the card hanging from the snapped wing of a battered ceiling fan. The Joker on its face was not recognizable from the bloody streak of a horribly twisted script.

_PLAY?_

The card spun lazily with the dusty, busted ceiling fan. The blood glistened against the light streaming in from the partially caved in ceiling. Debris littered the floor and spare tables, dusting the bar and the discarded and shattered shot glasses. The card spiraled, and the backside glittered, the words scrawled and big and bold and so red that the letters appeared black.

_START_

An arrow pointed to the thin strand of string holding the card to the fan.

"Is he kidding?" Jason breathed, flinching away from Barbara when she tried to place a hand on his shoulder. He didn't want her to pretend. He knew they hated him for what he had done. Jason watched Nightwing peer closely at the card. "You aren't going to take it, are you?" Jason asked, horrified.

"Batgirl, take Red outside."

A bout of fear slipped down into his stomach, cold and gnarled and clenching. "No," he choked. "It's rigged to blow up. You _know_ it is!"

"Nightwing," Barbara said, her voice soft and pleading.

"BG." He didn't look away from the card, and his entire body seemed to be frozen. His voice however, had taken on the same pleading tone as Barbara's. "Please?"

There was a half-moment's beat of contemplation. And then Barbara had him by the arm, dragging him with a startling amount of force toward the door. Jason struggled against her, but the fact was that she was just stronger. "Stop!" Jason cried, twisting to grab something from his jacket. She grabbed both his wrists and dragged him as if he was a child, his heels digging into the debris littered floor. "He's going to blow himself up! You can't—!"

"I trust him," Barbara hissed into Jason's ear. "And you should too."

_You trusted me too_, Jason thought, finally giving in and allowing her to pull him into the street. _Look where that got us_.

"We should get out of range," Barbara mused aloud, her fingers still tight around Jason's wrists. He had no will to fight her. Her words, however, disturbed him greatly.

"Are you telling me you're not scared _at all_ that he'll get caught in an explosion?" Jason growled, looking up at her with narrowed eyes.

"He won't."

"You don't know that!"

"I can believe it, though," Barbara said. She stared into his eyes, and though her face was a mask of tranquility, her eyes gleamed with terror. "Please believe it too."

Jason felt his own panic crushing him. Losing Tim, and now this? It was torture, and it squeezed him from within and threatened to tear him apart, tissue and flesh and blood and viscera shreds all fluttering like rain. It felt like there was a knife pressing up against his lungs, sticking but never quite puncturing. Jason pulled his hands from her, and he stood in the middle of the street, his body sinking forward as if there was a weight on his shoulders.

"I can't."

She stood, her body sagging as well. Then her head snapped to the side, and Jason heard it too, the heart-stopping sputter, and he stumbled forward, but Barbara tackled him, her body pinning him against the road. He thrashed against her cape as she draped it over him, the roar of the explosion sending him back, sending him screaming as the impact shot him in the head and the chest and the legs and shook his heart until it jolted and stopped—

But no. That was a lie. He was still alive. Batgirl's cape slipped from him, and he sat up, his heart pounding so hard that his chest was aching. She rolled off him, jumping to her feet and staring at the spitting, fiery wreckage that had been the pub. Jason was shaking, his legs numb as he scrambled to his feet, stumbling and shouting. Batgirl caught him around the shoulders, dragging him back.

"Wait!" she gasped. "Jason, wait! It's okay, look!"

He did. And he saw Dick, jumping down from _fuck knows where_, looking a little shell-shocked, but otherwise fine. Jason pushed Barbara off him, and he glared up at Nightwing, glad that his helmet was masking his expression. Jason felt rage boiling within him, and he dove at Nightwing, his knuckles catching him in the jaw. The man stumbled back, looking startled, but Jason wasn't satisfied. He shoved Dick back with all his strength, the light of the flames illuminating his shocked face as Jason kicked him so hard that he fell onto his back, the Joker card clattering beside him.

"I hate you!" Jason cried, pinning Dick down with his knees and slamming his fist over and over against his cheeks, watching his head snap from side to side. Barbara was screaming his name, but Jason could only hear a blurb and a whimper and his own hitching voice, terrified and screeching. "I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you_!"

"Jason, stop—!"

When she pulled on his shoulders, Jason began to pound on Dick's chest, clawing at the blue bird and leaving long red trails like streaks of bloody feathers. "I _hate_ you!" Jason rasped. He felt tears in his eyes, and his throat was raw and burning, aflame like the pub before them. The flicker of fire sent him spiraling into that crushing darkness he'd escaped, that grave, those months in a shut away place, a labyrinth, and a screaming bomb. "How could you? _How could you do that_? I hate you! I _hate__** you**_!"

Barbara tore him away, but even then he was thrashing, his screaming echoing against the sound of crackling flames. "Get a hold of yourself!" Barbara snapped, whirling him around to face her. There was still his helmet though, and it kept him safe, kept his broken expression from meeting her gaze. It didn't fool her though. "We need to find Robin, not beat each other to death!"

"He'll be dead by the time we find him anyway," Jason said in a hollow tone.

"Jason…"

"No." He pushed away from her, his gloves smearing Dick's blood on her arms. "You don't get it. You just don't! You're just giving him exactly what he wants!"

"And you letting him out of Arkham?" Barbara's eyes flashed dangerously. "What was that?"

"I wanted to do what I knew Batman could never do," Jason spat. He saw the shock in her eyes, and the way she recoiled, and sprung back, trying to cover her alarm. "I wanted him to come after _me._ Not Tim, or you, or him." Jason gestured to Dick, who was keeled over, spitting blood onto the roadside. "I thought he would come after me…"

"You wanted to face him?" Barbara looked as if she wanted to grab him and throttle him. "_Alone_? Jason, what possessed you—?"

"You don't understand," Jason repeated. "You'll never understand, because he's not there. In your head, all the time_, laughing_! I just wanted to make him feel the suffering he's caused. I wanted him to pay for it!"

"Killing him—" Dick's voice was muffled from the blood, from his swollen lips, from the obvious pain he was trying to hide. "Killing him would do nothing, Jay."

"It would prevent a hell of a lot of pain," Jason whispered. "He's scum. He's less than scum, he's the shit-stain on the soles of Gotham's finest pair of Jimmy Choos, and don't even try to deny the fact that the world would be better off without him!"

"It's not about that," Barbara said, letting her voice become a bit more delicate. "Killing is just… it's not what we do."

"I'm not you." Jason stood up straighter, his mind beginning to clear. There were sirens. They were shrieking in the distance, creeping forward steadily. "I'm not either or you, and I'm not Tim, and I'm sure as fuck not Batman. I'm _me_. I'm the one who fucked up here, and then, and all the time, so why can't I just set something _right_?"

"Because we can't lose you too," Dick said, out of breath and rasping. Blood trickled from his swelled lips, wet and glistening against the firelight. Dick ran his fingers through his hair, wincing a little as he bent down to pick up the Joker card. "I'm going to call M'gann, see if she can zeta—"

"Zeta tubes are offline," reminded Barbara in a terse voice. Dick flinched.

"Damn it," he swore softly. "They _would_ be…"

"She won't get here in time," Jason breathed. Smoke filled his mouth, and darkness swept like a cold, gaping wave, swallowing him up and chewing him out. His body felt numb to all emotions except fear and anger and guilt. He felt the sting of the smoke, even through the helmet, as if it was creeping through the covers and lashing at his skin.

He looked away as Barbara and Dick exchanged a sharp, desperate glance. Because they knew it was the truth.

* * *

Waking up had been the worst possible thing Tim could have done. The pain that tore through his upper thigh was blinding at first, and it took a few deep breaths and faint reminders of meditative techniques to keep him from crying aloud. It was too dark to see where he was, but he felt naked. Literally naked, his bare back scraping against frosted gravel, and the vulnerability that came with the knowledge of this sending him jolting upright. Chains sang around him, growing taut around his wrists and slamming him back onto the broken ground.

"What…?" Tim gasped, his tongue feeling thick and heavy against his teeth.

"Ah! Awake, bird brat?"

The voice crowed in the vacuous pit he was in. He looked around sharply, his heart thundering inside his chest at the very shriek of the Joker's shrill voice, and Tim had to take another deep breath. _I got kidnapped_, Tim thought, his emotions going haywire. _By the Joker. Is… is this it for me?_ Tim thought about Jason, and his haunted eyes and vacant expressions and ceaseless nightmares. He wondered how Jason would deal with this. _He won't deal with it. He'll just shut himself down again_.

This thought was a worm of guilt slithering through Tim's stomach, just as the pain in Tim's thigh became so intense that he hissed, turned his head from side to side. Suddenly the room sparked with light, and Tim was unable to see from the stark shock of fluttering flame against the metal beams arching high above. There was a tarp overhead, and skylight pooled somewhere through the holes of the plastic. His indistinct location was on the tip of his tongue, but the pain was swallowing it up.

"You are so disappointing," sighed the Joker. His shadow draped over Tim's sprawled body, and there was a torch burning in his fist, long tongues of fire creeping upward, illuminating the man's crazed expression. "The first Boy Blunder… oh, he was just so _good_! And I hated him. I wanted him under my knife _so bad_, birdy! But he kept slipping me, ya know, like a little slippery snake, and every time I thought I had him, he'd just… poof! Like a magician! Poof!"

Tim glared up at the Joker, the feeling of his mask the only assurance he had. He was sweating beneath it, and his body felt achy and clammy and his leg was afire against the rub of stone. The Joker stared at him expectantly. "What?" He grinned madly, his eyes going wide and bright and excited. "No witty quip? Oh, you pain me! Is it the leg thing? Aw, bird boy, I _am_ sorry about that! But you _know_ how it is with Bats— they need a little kick in the buns to get them real riled up. Ha ha ha!"

_Laugh all you want_, Tim thought, his chest aching as he recalled the laughing gas. _You'll get what's coming to you. Someday… if not today, someday, and the joke will be on you._

"Now, the second Boy Blunder!" The Joker whistled. "What an ungrateful little ragamuffin! He was so _loud_! But he was funny— much funnier than you." His lips curled into the biggest, most malicious smile Tim had ever seen. "Of course, he was a betrayal. Batman never asked if _I_ wanted a new Robin around. He never asked, bird boy, isn't that just the _worst_?"

The Joker put a mighty sort of emphasis on his words, spitting them as if they were acid. Tim shifted, discomfort seeping into his bones. The gash in his thigh was so painful, the thought of moving his joints made him need to suppress a wince. Tim squeezed his eyes shut. "Right," Tim hissed through gritted teeth. _Amuse him_. "Excuse me for not singing the potential break-up song."

The Joker laughed and laughed and laughed, and it sounded like something snapping inside Tim. "And then there's you!" The Joker's eyes flashed in the glow of the flame. "Now… what to do with bird boy number three… a crowbar is so two years ago, hmm?"

Tim watched, horrified, as the Joker dipped his torch, and the flames bent forward, the heat of them radiating in waves, smacking him with unease. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, the feeling of the fire so close to his navel forcing him into a state of utter terror. He didn't know what to do. The chains were digging into his wrists, biting and cutting, and the lower half of his body felt ablaze and mangled. Tim prepared himself mentally for the burn. But the burn never came.

"Oh wait," the madman gasped. "I don't want you _dead_! Silly me! Better start smaller."

Tim's eyes snapped open, just to see the Joker spin around, bouncing on his feet and humming. _He doesn't want me dead?_ Tim didn't know whether or not that was a relief. His body was taut with apprehension. He didn't know what to expect. _The longer the torture is prolonged_, Tim reasoned, knowing well what was coming for him, _the longer Dick has to find me._ The logic seemed sound. It was something to hold onto, through the pain. When he began to slip…

The air was cool, but he felt warm and sticky. There was blood drying on his legs, and he felt dizzy from the pain. He knew what would happen if the wound wasn't closed up properly. He didn't want to loose a leg. The thought made him imagine Arsenal, and something akin to regret bubbled within Tim. He laid, trapped and scared and wondering— if this truly was it…

He had so many _regrets_! Not just about Arsenal. Life in general— he could have lived it better. He should have been more social— he shouldn't have let the Robin thing dictate his life. He was scared, because… yeah, he had the Team, and they were great, but… who else would care? Outside the hero community, he had no one he could truly call a friend. No one at Gotham Academy noticed him. That had been his fault. He liked being alone.

Not to mention Jason. The last thing Jason would remember of him was a fight. A stupid, petty fight! After everything was growing smoother! How stupid was Tim to let this happen? It made him sick to imagine Jason— Dick— _Bruce_… how they would react… It would be awful. The guilt was already eating him alive. Tim pulled tentatively at his chains, but they only dug deeper into his wrists, and he felt the skin break, and he hissed as he felt the warmth of blood trickling against the inside of his arms.

"Say, Boy Blunder," the Joker called. "Is your favorite color red by any chance?"

Tim groaned internally. He glowered at the tarp above him, watching it waver in the wind. _Whatever keeps me alive_, Tim vowed. _I can't die. I can't let it happen again_. "How'd you guess?" Tim asked, his voice thick with the pain from his leg. He wondered if he'd be able to stand if he somehow got free. He squinted, and saw that the Joker had leaned the torch up against something out of Tim's vision range. But the spacious room was illuminated just enough for Tim to see the glitter of a knife. Of course.

"You know, your Red Hoodie did a real number on Harley," the Joker said conversationally. "I'm just a wittle teensy bit miffed— after all, that was my thing back in the day! But, life goes on! Well— not _all_ lives. Huh? Huh, geddit, birdy?" He grinned, and he laughed, and he caught Tim by the chin. "Say, bird boy, you don't smile much, do ya?"

Tim stared up at him, and he was frozen in terror. He was afraid to breathe, and he kept his jaw set, because if he didn't— if the clown got that knife in his mouth— Tim's heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it, feel it in his head, and ready to burst from fear. The Joker's long yellow fingernails dug deep into Tim's skin, and his fingertips were callused and scathing. It made Tim feel sick, knowing how many lives those hands had ended.

"Smile!" The Joker shouted. Tim blinked, feeling the knife bite into his cheek. "Come on, come on! If you don't show me your smile, I'll just have to give you a new one! But this one will be better. It'll be a _forever smile_. Just like mine!"

Tim stared up at the Joker, and he felt his chest ache with a bitter longing. He wanted Batman. He wanted Bruce. He wanted Dick, and Barbara, and Jason. The thought made tears prickle in his eyes. _I'll do it for them,_ Tim decided, his lips curling into a tremulous smile. _I'll do whatever it takes. For them._

"Meh," the Joker wrinkled his nose. "I mean, I _guess _it'll work— for now."

Tim choked on a gasp as the knife grazed his bare chest, sharp and imprecise, slashing a thin line from nipple to navel. "Sing, little birdy!" the Joker crowed, laughter soaking his gleeful words. "Sing until your feathers molt!"

He was only shocked. The pain in his leg was worse. It was much worse. Tim closed his eyes, and he shook his head. He shook it profusely. And he grunted, tears stinging against his masked eyes, as the Joker slid the blade inside the fresh wound, slipping the flat of it under his skin. The pain lanced all throughout Tim's torso, shaking him to the core, and his body buckled a little, quaking against gravel and threatening to twist against the pain.

And suddenly there was the sound of flesh sliding, and Tim had to bite his tongue, the echoing _skisch-skisch_-_skisch_ of knife sawing against meat sending him into a state of absolute shock. Disgust and agony rolled through him, rising in his throat. Was it vomit or a scream? Tim's neck snapped back, and he breathed sharply through his nose, pain… it was ripping— his skin was ripping— oh god—

He wasn't sure how long this went on. The pain was so strong… it took all of his willpower to keep from screaming. In his head, he was happy and safe and home, curled up in a blanket and watching his synthetic stars as they whirred around his room. There, he was content, and there he was with the people who _would_ come for him. Soon. They would. He knew it. He knew it. He _knew_ it!

The Joker kept talking, but it was all a buzz inside Tim's head. The pain in his leg was like a fire, a poisoned flame licking all up and down his legs, swollen knee cap and ruddy, blistered flesh. A wound that needed sewing. A wound that could kill him. But Tim didn't expect the Joker to know how dangerous open wounds were. Tim couldn't expect the Joker to know anything other than how to laugh and torture and kill. Chaos was his specialty.

"Okay, Boy Blunder," the Joker chortled. "Now give me that smile!"

Tim couldn't move his face. He was too tired, too pained, so his head merely lolled, and his lips twitched. Otherwise, his body remained still. He blinked twice at the flash, his mind not registering that the Joker had taken a picture of him. A picture? It seemed so silly. So mundane. So Tim. _I like photography_, Tim had to remind himself. _Once I told dad that I wanted to be a photographer, and he got really mad. Not a real profession, Tim. Not real. Remember? I remember. I do._

Pain made him forget. But, it made him remember too.

When the motley-clad figure bowed over him was swapped for Harley Quinn, Tim had never been so thankful for anything in his life. Harley was a little bit of an airhead, but she had common sense. He was only half conscious when she decided to sew up his leg, and even some of the deeper wounds on his chest. Except…

"Oh, don't you worry, puddin'," Harley giggled as she threaded his skin together. "It'll stop hurting soon, and then we can cover up all the bad stuff!"

She was treating him as if he was a doll. One of her ragdolls, and she had to stitch him up piece by piece so he wouldn't break apart. It was there his gratefulness ended. He wasn't a toy, he was a human being. He was Robin. He was going to come out of this torture alive, and he was going to go home, and everything would be fine.

He lost himself in a heavy mass of darkness, like some kind of tattered shroud, silky and battered, pulling over his face like a linen sheet.

_My name is Tim Drake_, he thought, reminded, slipping into a cold, stifling sleep. Pain rang there, rang and chimed and pleaded with him not to stay under water too long. His thoughts were a blur, a fading motion and as disconnected as a faulty chain. _My name is Tim. And I'm going to live._

There was a tightness to the thought, a constricted feeling that wrapped him up and pressed him to a pillowed bed, and smiled and cried and whispered.

_What a pretty lie…_

* * *

Jason was convinced that Tim was dead by the third day. Time passed in such a slow, languid fashion, and none of them had slept since the night the Joker got his grimy hands on their Robin. Jason had been sent away to go sleep multiple times, but Jason couldn't do it. He laid in his bed, overcome with shaking fits and stupors, and it happened so often that there were lapses in his memory that lasted for hours.

"It's okay," Tim said. Jason didn't look at him. He was curled up in his blankets, evening rays of sunshine glistening through his open window. The gentle waver of spring wind calmed him a little, but it made him cold and shaky. "You should go out. Get some air."

"You're not real."

Jason could sense him standing over him, scrawny and doe-eyed and too innocent for the Joker, far too innocent. "Why are you so convinced that I'm gone?" Tim asked, his voice echoing. Jason rolled onto his side, grabbing his pillow and shoving it over his head. It didn't muffle Tim's voice. Tim's presence. "I'm still alive! Jay, come on, get up!"

"Get out," Jason breathed. "Get out of my head!"

"Jason, get up!"

"You're not real!" Jason screamed, bolting upright and flinging his pillow across the room. It missed Tim by a few inches. "Shut up! You're dead!"

Tim looked horrified. "Jason…? No, listen—" Tim staggered back in shock when Jason dove out of bed, smacking him across the face. The resounding _slap_ startled Jason into reality. Tim's body melted away, and Jason found himself staring into Barbara's glassy blue eyes. Jason took a step back, his mouth falling open.

"I…" he choked. "Barbara…?"

Her cheek was turning a bright, angry red, but her face had gone stony. "The zeta tubes are up and running again," Barbara said softly. "The Team is coming soon to help us search."

Jason slumped forward, his body shaking so much he thought he might spill onto the floor. He bit his lip, his insides squirming and scratching and scathing. "I… I thought you were…" He couldn't speak. He felt so ashamed and idiotic.

"I know," Barbara said. She reached out for him, but he flinched away from her touch, stumbling back, his legs tangling. He fell flat against his bed, dizzily watching the ceiling. "Jason, I know you don't believe Tim is alive, but the Joker would have made it plain if he was dead. Please have a little faith."

"Why haven't you found him?" Jason's voice was blank, and his body had gone limp against the twisted blankets. "Three days? That's like a month in Joker-time."

"I know," Barbara repeated. She took a deep breath. "I know. But the… there's so many places they could be, and the Joker is laying low. Off the grid low. There's no lead yet. But we'll get one."

"We're horrible detectives."

"The Joker is better than we expected," she said. "Do you want to help us in the field?"

"Yes." Jason sat up, his body rejecting the motion. He was exhausted, and so was she. He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were glassy and bloodshot and puffy, mauve circles sunken deep into the hollow underneath them. "I want to be there when you find him. Dead or alive."

That made her stiffen. But she nodded anyway, a curt little jerk of her chin, and she spun around, all but running from the room. Jason wondered if he'd made her cry. He sat alone, his body still recovering from the shakes and the hallucinations and the confusion. He had no idea what had happened. But it hurt. It hurt too much. The manor felt empty, and it was hard to breathe.

_I got so attached to him_, Jason realized, bitter at himself and the world, _that I can't deal with my own head. I got used to him being here to help me_.

Jason stood, wandering into the hall and walking until he reached Tim's room. The door was ajar, and it had been that way for three days. Jason nudged it, slipping into the pristine looking room. It was as if Alfred had just cleaned it, but Jason knew the butler had not been on this floor for two days. The last time Jason had seen him, Alfred had brought up a plate of food, but Jason had gotten angry and refused to let the old man in. After that Alfred knew not to bother him.

Jason stood for a moment, feeling a wave of déjà vu. His eyes swiveled, and they found the glassy lamp, the bottled sky, Tim Drake's source of comfort when nightmares plagued his cluttered mind. The room felt chilly. Empty. The sun was setting in a way that sent shadows spilling across the carefully organized books, illuminating the empty bed and the closet door. Jason tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling with a furtive fascination.

_When I was little, Mom put stars on my ceiling_, Jason remembered, rage and confusion and desperation clinging to his insides like ice. _His did too_.

"You're not okay," Jason whispered to the stale air. Dust swirled in the startling rays, the pool of yellow sunset splashing against the yawning night. "But… I hope you're alive, baby bird."

Jason reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool glass of the star lamp. It stung like ice, biting his fingertips, and he let them linger there as he breathed deeply. _Be alive_, he prayed. _Please, please be alive_. He let his arm drop back to his side, and he stood, seconds, minutes, an hour, maybe, ticking by in a moment. Jason had to pull himself from the room, his body not really wanting to be anywhere. His mind agreed, for once.

He spun around, pushing out of the room with a frantic sort of haste. He didn't want to deal with the loss. He knew well what it was like, and he didn't want to deal with any of it. Jason knew that no matter how hard he tried, no matter what sort of act he put up, he'd still be small, sad, helpless fuck up of a little boy just praying for some absolution.

He dressed quickly, his limbs feeling heavy as he buckled a holster across his back. Whatever happened now, Jason knew one thing for sure. _I'm going to kill that son of a bitch_, Jason thought, feeling a familiar sink of barrenness as he looked at himself in the mirror. The boy who stared back was a ghastly thing, all protruding bones and pallid flesh and deep, rotting hollows where his eyes should have been. His lips were cracked and dry, ridges as parched and sickly as a desert. His eyes were heavy, and the blue of them which had once been striking and vigilant was now glassy and overcast with a mental fog. He remembered that once he'd been sturdily built, but now his arms were so feeble looking, he was certain just about anyone could snap one like a toothpick. He looked just about five years younger than he actually was, and felt decades older.

Jason shrugged on his jacket, feeling it wrap around him with a heavy comfort. The feeling of its many pockets full of certain little toys of destruction made him feel a little better, so he faired. He rubbed his eyes, but the dark circles seemed to be permanent, so he settled himself with combing the knots out of his hair. There were a lot. By the time his hair looked even remotely close to presentable, his scalp was throbbing, and he had a clump of hair in his palm.

Going downstairs was awkward. He knew that they were all unhappy with him— no that was an understatement. They hated him. He could sense it in the way they moved, the way they looked at him. He didn't blame them. He hated himself too, more than he hated anyone— maybe even more than he hated the Joker. There was a deep, penetrating self-loathing that plagued him, and it was only growing more grotesque.

"Any leads?" Jason asked, tentatively creeping a few feet away from Dick. The boy Jason had lived with two years before was a sad memory. Jason saw him shrinking smaller and smaller with every movement of Nightwing's broad shoulders, his aloof demeanor, his calculating manner. Batman had taught him well. He handled pressure as if it was simply a linen sheet— perhaps near weightless, if truthful, but then there was the icky burden that was slung with the very _purpose_ of it. Maybe the idea alone would kill him.

"None." Dick pushed back from the monitor, taking everything without giving a hint of despair. His strength was something that Jason desperately envied, and yet it made Jason hopelessly enraged. He had no right to be so calm. "But the Team's going to meet us at Barbara's apartment, so I think we have a good chance of getting somewhere tonight. By all probability, someone is bound to find _something_."

Jason stood for a moment, his hood clutched tightly in his bony fingers. "Fuck probability," Jason said, sliding the helmet over his head. "I'm not leaving shit to chance."

Nightwing was stony, and it was so strange to see. It wasn't Dick Grayson standing before him, but Batman's prodigal son, and that was unnerving to Jason, who had once lived with a boy who smiled too much. Dick had never been so detached before. He had still been a child when Jason had died— a little jaded for all things considered, but still a boy wonder in his own bright, contented way. Jason saw Dick's childhood, which had been torn from him and discarded in a grave somewhere far away, a distant glimmer in a stifling little box.

_I'm sorry I forced you to grow up_, Jason wished he could say, watching Dick turn from him. _I'm sorry I died, and I'm sorry I came back. None of this would have happened if I had just… never been here at all_.

Jason didn't know how to think or feel anymore. He thought about his own childhood as he followed Nightwing in a dejected sort of silence, his willpower cut down to a stump. They met on the roof of Barbara's apartment complex, while the Team arrived via their own transportations. Some arrived by bioship, some by the Super Cycle, some flew, some ran. It was a sort of blur, but the result was the same.

"The squads will be groups of two, for time's sake. The more squads we have, the more ground will be covered." Dick had the same eerily calm tone that he'd had in the Batcave. "I'm going to warn everyone now. If you locate the Joker, do not— I repeat, _do not_ under _any_ circumstance— try and engage in combat. Contact me or Batgirl first. If it's unavoidable, do not leave your partner's side."

"Is this chum really so dangerous?" La'gaan wondered aloud. Jason watched him, and he wanted to throttle him for a moment. But he decided to excuse the Atlantean. He didn't quite know what he was asking, and who to. "I mean, Neptune's Beard! He's just a man— not even trained or anything! Robin's strong. Strong enough for that bastard, I'd think!"

"That bastard killed me," Jason informed him. He wondered why this wasn't common knowledge by now. La'gaan looked at him, and his expression softened a bit into something akin to regret. "What makes him dangerous is because he's 'just a man'. He's a unhinged, homicidal scrap of scum— and every single time we underestimate him. That's a mistake that cost me my _life_, and now it's cost me Robin's too. So for fuck's sake, don't question the risk just because the Joker is a _man_."

In his head he could hear laughter, but he buried it beneath a heavy cape and the scent of sweat and the taste of smog and the feeling of wind rushing beneath him. Jason saw Nightwing's face, and he looked away, his stomach twisting into knots. _He hates me_, Jason thought bitterly. _I practically killed Tim. I hate…_

"Robin's still alive," Nightwing said steadily. "Alpha, Miss Martian and Impulse, you'll be searching in Upper East Side. It's a lot of ground, but I think—"

There was a rush of air that kicked up around them as a bright yellow blur skidded to a stop before Nightwing, body bent to keep itself balanced. He stood up straight, Wally West's bright green eyes flashed to Dick Grayson's face, concern glowing there despite the silly smile sitting listlessly on his lips.

"Ugh," Kid Flash sniffed, smacking the bold red lightning bolt on his chest. His obnoxiously yellow suit melted into a somber hue. "I knew I'd be the last one here. Way to wait up for me, 'Wing. So what squad am I in?"

Dick stared for a moment, blinking with wide eyes before his lips curled upward into a relieved, grateful smile that made his entire body go lax. "I think Gamma could use a speedster. Arsenal and Bumblebee, in Diamond District."

"Alright. Cool." Wally looked at Arsenal, and there was something troubled about his expression, but Jason brushed it off. Wally was still mourning Artemis, after all.

"You're back?" Beast Boy whispered excitedly. "Are you gonna—?"

"Sorry," Wally told the little green boy softly. "I'm not out of retirement. But I know when I'm needed."

They deployed after Nightwing gave them their squadrons. He wanted them to focus on warehouses and abandoned factories because it fit the Joker's MO. Jason was scared for exactly that reason. He was Delta with Batgirl, saddled with Crime Alley. Nightwing was with Wonder Girl, and Jason knew well why. Dick didn't want to deal with him. It was the only explanation. Why else wouldn't he want Jason on his squad?

"Gotham isn't that big," Jason insisted, sinking into the shadows as Barbara's arm shot out, cloaking him from the view of some drunkards. When they were out of earshot, Jason looked at her with pleading eyes. "You do get what I'm saying, right?"

"He's alive." Batgirl's resolve was admirable. "I know you don't want to believe it, but the Joker would make a spectacle of Robin's death, and you know it. He'd want us to find the body."

Jason didn't answer. He pressed his back to the wall, letting the shadows melt around him, cool and soothing and shuddering. Barbara had a point, but it simply did not seem logical to him. The Joker had only had Jason for a few hours before killing him. The memory sparked a new spark of self-hatred, a new plea for death. _But I don't want to die_, Jason reminded himself. _I want Tim, and I want Bruce, and I want Dick to not hate me._

The grimy streets piqued at the memories he kept floating inside his mind. He saw himself, young and bold and a fool, slipping through the alleyways with a smile so broad that he could feel it ghosting upon his facial muscles even now. He saw Dick, younger by only a few years, but weightless in a way that only a child could be. He saw Barbara, new and clumsy and irrationally careful, keeping herself distanced from their easygoing way of fighting crime.

"_Come on_!" he'd gasped, twirling around and kicking a thug squarely in the chest. He'd cone flying into a wall— or perhaps it had been a window? Jason could not recall. "_You promised! Both of you_!"

Nightwing's laugh had been staccato, bursting at the seams with life as he battled his own thugs, forcing one to head-butt the other, and dancing around a third, knocking him out cold with two swift strokes of his escrima sticks. Batgirl appeared behind him, her leg jutting out and catching another thug in the side, forcing him to flip onto his back. She had him out quickly enough.

"_It's still up to B, Robin_," Nightwing had said, gesturing around with the tips of his escima sticks. "_You know that_!"

"_Yeah_," Jason had moaned. "_Yeah, yeah, I know! But, like, it's just not fair! I've been doing this longer than Batgirl, and she joined last week_!"

"_We only needed her because I couldn't face Queen Bee myself_," Nightwing had sighed. "_She didn't officially join_."

"_But still_!"

"_Calm down_," Batgirl said with a face that was blurring with every passing moment. "Red Hood? Red, calm down!"

He was shaking so badly, he was about one dizzy spell away from full on convulsions. The air was hot, and there was bile in his throat, and he had to swallow thickly, breath bated and fingers reaching out desperately for something to keep hold of. They caught on Batgirl's cape, and he clutched at it with his breath rattling softly.

"Sorry," he murmured, pushing away from her and spinning away. He didn't want to look her in the face. "Sorry. Let's keep looking."

"Are you sure—?"

"Yes," Jason snapped. He tugged on his gloves, straightening up as he marched into the street. _I'm not afraid of Crime Alley_, Jason told himself. _I lived in this miserable gutter not so long ago_. Though, in truth, it felt like a lifetime ago and then some that Jason Todd had found slumber in the shade of cardboard boxes and tin garbage bins.

They searched a few warehouses, and their trail from there only grew colder— or so Jason thought. They were on their fourth try when Barbara signaled him to here. Jason had a batarang in hand by the time he reached her side, but he realized what she had found, and he felt himself go rigid. There was a note stabbed into the dark wall, stark in the dimness of the night. The knife pinning it in place glistened a little, stained with long dried bloodstains. The edges of the paper were crinkled, a bloody fingerprints were smeared by what Jason could only assume was an accident when scrawling the new message.

_YOU HAVE REACHED A CHECKPOINT!_

The script was bright and red and erratic. Beneath it, in a smaller, more delicate lettering, another message was inked in blood.

_play scene?_

_check the fence_

Jason stood for a moment, locked in terror as Barbara pressed her fingers gingerly against the knife. He was scared, because it felt like a trap. How else could the Joker have known that they'd be there? He watched Batgirl's fingers close tightly around the hilt of the blade, and she licked her rosy lips, her eyes darting fast and calculating her chances.

They couldn't leave evidence. Jason reached forward, his heart pounding, and he shook his head at Barbara. She looked at him, and he knew she saw the pouty, loudmouthed brat she'd trained side by side with once. He closed his fist around hers, the hilt feeling hot beneath her gloves and her skin and his gloves as well— it felt like fire, ready to drag him under and over and to hell and back just one more time.

"Get back," he told her. "I want to do it."

"Absolutely not," she hissed, standing up straight in order to use her height as an advantage against him. It wasn't much, though, because he was nearly her height now anyway. He wondered when that had happened. "The last thing we need is for you to get hurt over something like this."

"Barb," he whispered, looking to her and squeezing her hand. "Please. I've got a mask. It filters everything for me. You've got nothing. Stand back, and put a rebreather in your mouth."

"You think that it's poisoned?" She didn't sound surprised. She had probably been debating it herself.

"I think we need to check now, before someone else finds something similar. This is Gotham. Anything that happens here is our responsibility." Jason felt heavy saying these words. And yet, lightheaded too. And so strangely empty. His heart was weighed down, but it was achingly hollow.

Barbara looked him, her eyes going big, and she searched his red helmet, as if she'd get an emotion out of it. She bit her lip, and took a tentative step back as Jason loosened his grip on her hand. "Be careful," she said, her voice a rapt command. Her eyes were glowing with concern, though, and it startled him. She took another few paces back, slipping her rebreather into her mouth. When she gave Jason a thumbs up, he yanked the knife from the wall. As he'd expected, just as the note fell, and he caught it between two fingers, a thick gas leaked from the crack in the wall.

"Shit." It was better than an explosion. But not much. He looked to Barbara, who was watching the gas with an unreadable expression. Jason gave a command to his helmet to link him up with the rest of the Team. "Delta to Team. Found a note in Crime Alley— definitely from the Joker. If anyone finds something similar, do not go near it unless you have something filtering your air."

"_Um, Zeta to Team. This is Blue Beetle_." Jason thought that Jaime sounded off, but then, Jason didn't really know the boy. "_Guardian found a note too, and now…_"

Jason heard the laughing. He couldn't help but groan. This was already a disaster, and the night had barely begun. "_Guardian_?" Bumblebee's voice was startled. "_What do you mean? Is he okay? He's okay, isn't he_?"

"_I'm not really sure_," Blue Beetle replied. "_Uh, he's laughing a lot? I… I mean, it's awfully creepy_."

"_Epsilon to Team_," Nightwing said, his voice taking on that awful commanding tone. When Nightwing acted like the leader, he truly took it upon himself, and it frightened Jason. "_Anyone else showing the symptoms of Joker Venom, tell me now! Wonder Girl is on her way to Guardian now with the antidote, and it can be distributed to everyone if needed. All squads, check in_."

"_Gamma is good_," Bumblebee said. Kid Flash's voice then buzzed in Jason's ear. "_We found a Joker card, but Arsenal sorta destroyed it. It said something like, replay scene_?"

"Ours says play scene," Jason said. He felt a strange rush of gratitude for Arsenal for some reason. "Delta is A plus, by the way."

"_Beta's in a chase— not with the Joker, with some robber dude_!" Beast Boy laughed excitedly. "_It's awesome_!"

_Well, somehow we managed to be even less covert than usual_. Jason couldn't even find the energy to be surprised.

"_Alpha_," Miss Martian spoke up. "_We actually just found a note, but all it says is the word "pause"…_ _should we take it?"_

Jason held out the knife to Barbara, which she took with out comment, her fingers tightening around the hilt as she spun it carefully, taking in all she could before bagging it. The gas had melted away, never reaching their breaths, and forced to disperse into the air. Jason was staring at the note, his body taut with apprehension. Three days. Even if they got him back… he wouldn't be the same. It would be… be like…

"Check the fence…" Jason murmured. Barbara looked at him, tucking the evidence bag into her belt, and she looked hopeless.

"_Take it, Miss M_," Nightwing ordered. "_But be careful. These notes were planted for a reason_."

"_Understood_."

"The fence?" Jason whispered, allowing Barbara to take the note from his fingers. She looked at it, and then up at him, her blue eyes giving off a salient glow in the darkness. She was pleading, with him, with the universe, and he almost felt guilty. She was hurting too. Barbara Gordon was family, and for her… was this like losing another brother? Jason couldn't be sure, because he was so wrapped up in his own struggles. But he forgot all the time that Barbara felt the backlash of everything they did.

Jason didn't realize he was shaking. He felt Barbara's fingers against his shoulder, and he wanted to recoil, to run away— being touched was so unnerving, he just wanted to melt away at the very brush of physical contact. But he couldn't. He was so tired of everything, and he had no will to push her away. He closed eyes, leaning into her touch, and for a moment they stood with her one arm around his shoulders, and his head bowed somberly.

They left the warehouse, her arm still wrapped tightly around his shoulders for security. Jason wasn't entirely certain, but he felt a visceral sort of tug, a creep that grazed his bones and licked at his skin with a rotten tongue. He stopped, frozen in terror, and Barbara looked down at him, her eyes widening. She called to him, but her voice was so distant, she sounded as if she had been submerged beneath a deluge of rushing water.

There was a fence behind the warehouse. It was chain-linked, rising a few feet above Jason's head. Easy to jump if necessary, but… the links were rusted, stained black in the blanket of night. He shrugged Barbara off, his fingers winding between links, closing against the rusted chains. Wind whistled, breathing between the holes and screaming in his head.

"You go left," Jason said, reaching up, his fingers catching against the fence and pulling his body up. Barbara objected immediately, but he didn't listen. He balanced himself on the metal beam, towering over her with a lifted chin and eyes like slits. He felt more confident now— and that was the worst thing, really. Feeling so disgusting and worthless and withering one moment— and the next, suddenly Jason was the _best_, and he didn't need _anyone _to help him. He was hyperaware of how fucked up this was, but he couldn't help it.

He ran right, keeping himself upright with ease. He forgot how fun it was to just… run. He could do so much, be so special, but he wasn't, not really. So he settled for running, balancing and fighting gravity, his body moving quickly, precisely. He dropped down when he saw it, his body curling into a flip, and his boots clapping against the ground. The night was quiet, but there was nothing serene about the sight before him. His body was rigid, muscles locked and joints stiff. He stared with wide eyes, his mouth falling open.

The body was black and bloated, the skin mottled and mauve and bubbling. It was hard to tell whether or not it had been a man or a woman, because the skin was sloughing off the bones, and the clothes were so tattered and faded, they looked like strips of muddy plastic, wavering with every flutter of the wind. It was tied to the fence with wire, glinting silver in the darkness, bony wrists bare for him to see. He bit his lip, his stomach toiling and churning and his knees shaking and his heart pounding, _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_—

"Red Hood," Batigirl said, her voice soft and harsh and scratching and comforting. All at once. She meant well, but he was sick and tired and still half-dead. He realized he'd been standing there for longer than he'd thought. "We really need to have a talk. Me, you, and Nightwing."

"Um, now?" Jason barked a laugh, but it sounded pitiful, part sob and part cough and part rasp. "We have some matters a _teeny_ bit more pressing!"

She sighed. It sounded defeated, and it made his skin crawl. "I know. I already alerted the police about the remains. But you... I'm scared for you. You have to understand that."

"I'm not the one you should be scared for," Jason snapped.

"I know." She looked down, her red hair curling around her cheeks as her shoulders hunched upward. "I'm scared for Robin too. But I know him, and I know you. Robin's stronger than you give him credit for, and… I think he'll be able to bounce back from this. You can too. You've been better, and—" She bit her lip, her breath catching. Perhaps it was because of the smell. "Look. I know you. You think you're alone, and that makes you shut yourself away, but you can't do that anymore."

"I'm not shutting myself away," Jason hissed. He didn't like how accusing she sounded. _She blames me for everything_, Jason thought. _She has the right to._

"You spent three days in your room with barely any human contact or food." Barbara's eyes were narrowed. He stiffened, but at the very least she didn't mention his hallucinations. "What do you call that?"

"Uh," Jason said, folding his arms across his chest. "Meditational fasting?"

"I'm sure."

"Whatever," Jason spat. He looked at the body, his body still reacting in a way that was forcing him to swallow bile. Then he spotted something. Twine, tied around the corpse's awkwardly bent neck. Jason took a few quick steps forward, his joints rejecting the motion, his stomach lurching as he reached out, his fingers brushing decomposing skin. He was glad for his gloves.

"Don't compromise the remains," Batgirl reminded.

"There's something…" Jason tugged at the twine necklace, and from beneath the mud caked rags something slide upward. For a moment, Jason could only stare in confusion. "It's a tape."

Batgirl stepped beside him, peering over his shoulder. He could feel how tense her body was, and could hear her breath catch. She spun away, her hair whipping against the wind, and she pressed her finger to her ear. "Batgirl to Nightwing," she said, her voice thick. "We have a corpse and a tape. From the Joker."

There was a crackle on the commline for a moment. Jason pulled the twine necklace from around the corpse's neck, holding his breath despite the fact that the smell was blocked from his nostrils. The dark, decomposing skin chafed against the string, and it oozed. Jason stumbled backwards, gripping the tape with trembling fingers. _He's a nobody_, Jason told himself. _Just a corpse. Not Tim, not anyone I know_. It still made him sick, and Jason hated himself for it.

"_Can you ID the victim?_" Nightwing said, breaking the uneasy silence.

"No." Batgirl's voice was tight. "The remains aren't fresh. They've been decomposing for over twenty four hours. It's not Robin, though. Height doesn't match up."

"_Right._" If Nightwing was bothered, he didn't let it be heard. "_Team, I want everyone to pull back. Back to the base_."

The base being Barbara's apartment building, Jason could only assume. The Squads chimed in with acknowledgements, and Wonder Girl alerted them to administering the antidote to Joker Venom to Guardian. Jason took one last look at the corpse, the familiar wail of sirens pounding in his head as Batgirl dragged him away, leaping the fence. He followed without comment, feeling disoriented. He would be lying if he said he felt anything remotely close to okay. It was sad. He wanted to be better.

When they got back to Barbara's apartment, Nightwing wanted a report, and Barbara was the one to give it, along with the knife, note, and tape. When Miss Martian and Impulse showed up, the green girl looked a little distraught and sickened, while Impulse simply looked grave. It was a jolting change from the boy's motor mouth personality, and when he handed over their own Joker note, as well as a blood smeared photograph, Jason had to turn away, his teeth cracking against each other as he tried to calm his rage.

"Wait, what is it?" Beast Boy gasped, jumping up and down beside Nightwing to peer at the photo. Nightwing, pulled it away, shaking his head. M'gann pulled the kid back, her fingers squeezing his shoulder, and he went a little limp for a moment, his green eyes flashing around in confusion, and then terror. "Robin?" he squeaked.

"Everyone under the age of fifteen, out," Nightwing ordered, handing the photograph to Barbara. She took one look at it, and her expression hardened. There was a uproar of objections, Wonder Girl jumping into the air, waving her arms frantically.

"We're not little kids!" she gasped, dodging Barbara's ceiling fan. Impulse nodded vigorously, and Garfield looked up at M'gann with big, pleading eyes. "We can take whatever is on that tape. Don't treat us like we're children!"

"I'm not trying to," Nightwing sighed. "But I know what the Joker is like. If this tape is what I think it is, I don't want… There's a lot of things I can't spare you from seeing. But this is one of them."

"I want to stay," Impulse declared. Wonder Girl nodded in agreement. Jason stood back, his stomach squirming as Beast Boy looked up at him. "Ro— uh, I mean, Red? You're fourteen still."

"Technically I'm sixteen."

"Technically you're dead," Arsenal piped up. Jason and Nightwing both shot him twin glares, which he shrugged off easily. "Anyway, if we went by that logic I'd be old enough to legally drink, which, sadly, is not the case."

"I'm sure that stops you," Jason scoffed. Arsenal looked at him, and shot him a wide smirk.

"I'm not kidding around here," Nightwing said, straightening up. "If I could, I'd send all of you home. But I know now that everyone is involved they'll want to see it. It's not going to be pretty, and it's my job to protect you from things like this."

"It's our choice," Wonder Girl said, lowering herself to the ground to straighten herself up in defiance. "Robin's our friend, and we have the right to know what's happening to him."

"It's no use," Wally said, clapping Nightwing on the shoulder. "Come on, there's no reasoning with stubborn teenagers. We of all people should know that."

Nightwing looked around, and Jason almost felt sorry for him. But really, the asshole should have expected it. Jason sat down on the arm of one of Barbara's couches, feeling uneasy with so many people packed into one tight space. And Jason didn't even want to think about what would happen if Jim Gordon decided to come home early.

"Come on," Batgirl sighed, tugging the string from the videotape. She dusted off the VCR sitting atop her television, and Jason could only suppose they were lucky that she still owned one. She inserted the tape, and took a few steps back. Jason felt jittery, and he could feel the tension in the room, hear a dozen breaths catch as the screen flickered. The camera was shaky, and there was a faint whistling as well as a _clack-cla-clack_ of the camera jostling.

"_Testing_!" a shrill voice bellowed. It hit Jason hard, and it made him dizzy with rage. He was glad he was sitting down. "_Right-o! This one goes out to my_ favorite _boy blunder_!"

Jason was gripping the sofa with quaking fingers. He could feel eyes on him, and but he chose to ignore Arsenal and instead focus on breathing regularly. The camera spun for a moment, the lighting so dark and fuzzy that it was difficult to make out the dark blur that the camera settled on. Then the light brightened, the lens lighting up like a flare had been dropped, and Jason chewed on his tongue as the illumination caught on the small, bloody mess curled up the ground. The Joker's foot came into view, nudging the bare, red streaked back of the tiny boy.

"_Wakey, wakey, bird brain_!" the Joker cooed. The silence in the room was itching, crawling, suffocating, and Jason could feel it building into something else, some thickening tension that was ready to snap and blow and burst _up_ and _up_ and _**up.**_ Tim did not move, and Jason could only hold his breath, his heart pounding viciously. "_Oh, come on! Does your mother have to drag you out of bed in the morning? Tsk_!"

The body was limp, and the more Jason looked at it the more he wanted to puke. No one had left the room yet, but he could see M'gann looking uneasy, her arms draped over Garfield's shoulders, pulling him so close he looked about to snap in half. Jason breathed in and out, but there was a soft ringing in his head that just wouldn't go away.

"_Up_!" a high voice giggled. Harley's blonde pigtails bounced before the camera for a moment before she appeared beside Tim, forcing him upright. Jason watched the boy's head loll, and he saw the bruises and the thin cuts, precise enough to hurt, but not scar. She held a flask above his head, and drizzled what Jason could only hope was water over Tim's soiled face. The boy's eyes snapped open, and Jason felt an odd pinching in his stomach as Tim leaned into the water, the shaky camera capturing his cracked and bloody lips parting for hydration. "_'Atta boy_!"

Nightwing nor Batgirl seemed to be troubled by the fact that the entire Team was witnessing Tim maskless. His face was too bruised and dirt caked for recognition anyway. At least, that's what they hoped. The room was still cloaked in heavy silence. No one moved. No one even sounded a breath.

"_Alrighty, boy blunder! Give a grand hello to big brother and sister and papa Batsy_!" The Joker didn't have a hand steady enough to keep the camera straight as an arm reached out, gloved fingers mussing Tim's cropped black hair almost _affectionately_. A growl formed at the back of Jason's throat.

Tim's eyes flickered for a moment, flashing in pain. After a moment, though, his eyes were blank, and Jason knew he'd only been expecting a blow, not a gentle pat on the head. "W—" Tim's voice was so raw and coarse, he seemed to choke on its thickness. "W-what…?"

"_Batsy. You know. Or do you? Are you forgetting, bird brat_?" The Joker's laugh pierced through Jason's skin and bone and set a fire deep in the cold recesses of Jason's hollow heart. "_I guess I should help you remember_."

"_I remember_." He raised his eyes to the camera, and there was a faint spark there. Jason could only pray it was resilience, and not madness. "_I remember f-fine_."

"_Oh yeah_?" The Joker gave a sharp giggle, and Harley echoed it. "_What's your name_?"

That question made Tim flinch. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing becoming heavier, rasping in the poor sound quality. Jason could see the lines running all along his chest, jagged, erratic, sliced and stabbed and whipped… and what else? Beaten with a crowbar? It hurt to look at Tim, but Jason couldn't tear his eyes away.

"_I'm Robin_," Tim said, his voice a breathy whisper. "_And— and you can't_ kill_ Robin_."

There was a biting silence that followed. Jason felt a rush of pride and fear and fury for his replacement, and he wanted to scream. But he couldn't. He could barely breathe, let alone scream. All around him, teammates were closing in on each other, holding shoulders, hands, waists… Everyone seemed to be almost coping.

There was a soft pop, a cork bursting from a bottle. "_Wanna bet_?" the Joker asked, his voice going so low that it resonated inside Jason's bones.

Tim stared at the camera, his eyes narrowed. Jason didn't understand what he was trying to say, though, because after a moment a vial flashed before the camera, a dark liquid pooled inside it. Tim took one look at it, and he squeezed his eyes shut, twisting away from Harley Quinn.

"_No_," he hissed. "_No, you_ can't!"

He sounded so broken and desperate that Jason had to look away from the screen. He didn't want to see Tim beg. He didn't was to witness this at all. But if everyone else could, than he could only suppose that he _had_ to, or else he would seem even more weak and useless than he already was.

"_Ooh_?" The Joker cackled, bouncing up and down. The camera shook noisily, the screen blurring before refocusing on the wide, tightly closed eyes of the current Robin. "_Scared of a little burn, birdy_?"

_Don't_, Jason wanted to snarl, _don't you dare!_

Tim was shaking. Jason could see that this was obvious, but as the Joker continued to laugh, Tim's body went rigid. He peeled open his eyes, and Jason could see them, looking straight at the camera with soft sort of resignation, a subtle nod jerking at them from a boy who seemed to have given up.

"No," Tim said, his voice a terse murmur. He lifted his head, defiance clear in his soft blue gaze. "I'm not afraid of you."

The worst thing was, Jason couldn't even tell if it was a lie or not. By all accounts, Tim should have been scared. But then, he was pretty damn fucking stupid. Jason hadn't the faintest idea what was going on inside Tim's head. Jason felt as though he didn't really know the boy at all, which… frightened him. After all, Tim had been a huge part of Jason's life over the past few months.

The camera was handed off to Harley Quinn, and suddenly the Joker had Tim by the hair, jerking his head back. Jason could see the whites of Tim's eyes for a moment, wide and flashing, before the boy squeezed his eyes shut again. The vial was held over Tim's face, the dark liquid swishing between gloved fingers. Tim's face was turned toward the camera, and it was contorted in apprehension, anxiety and tension from knowing what was coming next.

Jason heard Garfield's muffled gasp as M'gann clapped her hands over his eyes, twisting him away from the screen. Jason couldn't look away though, feeling his teeth clenched and crack against each other as he shook in utter rage. His breath had caught, and he felt sickened watching the Joker bring the vial over Tim's eyes, inching it closer and closer and closer, tipping it ever so slightly—

The Joker's hand jerked, and instead of the acid splashing over Tim's sad blue eyes, it spilled all down his pale, marred chest, and Jason jolted to his feet, the scream that ripped from the boy's throat so feral and agonized that it sent a wave of shouts throughout the tiny room. The skin of his chest was _sizzling_, and Jason could hear it even over the erratic screams, and Tim convulsed, his body thrashing fervidly and madly, and the screams only got louder and louder, head whipping back as limbs flailed and bent and—

The screams were cut off, leaving the room in a haunted silence. Jason was standing on buckling limbs, his heart pounding, and his breathing sharp and uneven. No one seemed to notice though. Their eyes were all fixed on the screen, on their broken Boy Wonder, on the world that had just gotten a whole lot darker. Jason was dizzy and sick, and he felt the need to run and run and run and never look back.

Nightwing was peering at the screen, his hand over his mouth as he squinted. Someone spoke, a soft little gasp. "Oh, Neptune…" La'gaan looked between them, pressing his hand to his forehead as if to steady himself.

"Nightwing," M'gann said, her voice somehow steady. "What do we do?"

Nightwing shook his head. Instead of answering, he beckoned Batgirl closer to him, and she reached his side with a strong sense of composure. Only Jason could see her hands shaking. She leaned forward, her head cocking in thought. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Barbara asked, her voice edging on the brink of hope.

Faintly, Nightwing nodded, a trace of a smile sitting indistinctly on his lips. "They're underground," he said, his shoulders slumping. "We've been looking in all the wrong places."

"You can't blame yourself for that." Barbara did not tear her eyes away from the screen. "We couldn't have known the Joker would have changed his MO."

"Of course." Nightwing spun around, and Jason watched him desperately, hoping for the brother he had known years and years ago. What he got was the Team's fearless leader. "I'm sorry all of you had to see that. We're going to take this from here. Thank you all for the help, and… I really wish this had played out differently."

"Nightwing," Superboy spoke up, for possibly the first time that night. "You can't expect us to just _leave_ after this. This is our mission now. We have to help."

"This isn't your mission," Nightwing said in a slow, level tone. "This is something very, very personal between Batman and the Joker. And me. I'm sorry I had to get all of you involved, but I know when backup is needed— and I know when to stop. I can't put any of you in any more danger than I already have—"

"This is your Team!" Arsenal spat, pushing himself up straight and stalking past Jason. "Robin is our teammate, right? Shouldn't we have the chance to help rescue him? Like, okay, whatever, your family bullshit is your issue. But refusing help from us because your dumb morals tell you not to is ridiculous."

Barbara looked up at Nightwing, who was watching Arsenal with narrowed eyes. Then, he sighed, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. "Head home," he said. He held his hand up as the group unanimously objected. "There's nothing more you can do tonight. I'll give an alert as soon as we have more information. Trust me, you don't want to handle the sleuth work. It's really boring." He managed a tight smirk, and he turned off the television, letting his words sink in.

"Are you sure?" M'gann asked, hugging Garfield to her chest. The green boy looked distant, his eyes cast toward the ground. _You wanted to see it, kid_, Jason thought, chomping down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something stupid.

"Try and get some sleep," Nightwing said. Jason wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to shout and cry and destroy. _You aren't one to talk!_ "A fresh start might be what we need right now."

The Team left begrudgingly, filing out of the apartment with a heaviness to them all. Jason stopped Bart by the door, pulling him aside when Nightwing wasn't looking. Impulse looked up at him through his yellow tinted glasses, eyes wide. He smiled though, keeping up an act that Jason was long since sick of.

"What's up, Hoodie?" Bart chirped. Then he paused, glancing away. "I mean… you know, aside from…"

"Is he alive?" Jason asked, gripping Bart's upper arm tightly. The boy's eyes went so big, he looked younger by half a decade. "In your time, did Robin live?"

Bart shifted fast from foot to foot, staring at Jason's face with something close to panic. But he calmed, and he sighed. "Uh… I'm sorry, Red, but… this never happened in the future that I come from. I'm not sure what changed, but Tim Drake was never kidnapped by the Joker as far as I know."

"Did he die?" Jason asked, pinning Bart in place before he could slip out of his grasp. "Does everyone die?"

"I don't know." Bart kept the details of what had happened post-Reach apocalypse under wraps. "Look, I don't think I should be telling you this stuff, 'cause who knows what's changed in the future. It's all like… wibbly-wobbly, y'know?"

Jason rolled his eyes. He pulled off his hood, the desire for fresh air outweighing his discomfort for anyone seeing his uncontrolled expression. Not that the helmet didn't filter the air, but Jason just… he felt the need to take it off. This conversation needed conveying. He understood that. "I get that," Jason said. "Really, I do. But I have to know."

"You don't," Bart said softly.

"I do," Jason growled, squeezing Bart's bicep hard enough to make him yelp. "I've been through enough bullshit to last me a lifetime. I need to know what happens to them."

"In my time," Bart said, seemingly choosing his words very carefully. "There's no heroes. That's it. That's all you need to know."

Then he broke free, zipping away so fast that it took Jason a few moments to realize he was gone. Jason stood alone then, his fingertips shaking against his helmet. He leaned back against the wall, his breath shuddering in the silence. He couldn't hear Barbara and Dick, so he could only assume they were working. Jason felt himself sliding, and he collapsed onto his knees, his eyes cast down at Barbara's hard wooden floor. He hugged his hood to his chest, chewing at his lower lip in disgust and fear and fury and devastation.

He started crying without meaning to. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, but the tears kept coming, and he could feel sobs building in his chest, his throat getting tighter and tighter. He listened to his helmet clatter to the floor, but he didn't care, because he was so occupied with his own senseless despair. His eyes stung from the tears, so he kept rubbing them with the back of his hand, listening to the tears squelch against leather.

"Jason…"

He recoiled when Dick pressed a hand to his shoulder. "G-get away!" Jason spat, choking on a sob. He was quaking, his body wracking and shuddering and he couldn't help it. He felt so weak and stupid. He couldn't deal with Dick's stupidity, not right now. "I'm fi— fine!"

"Don't lie to me," Dick whispered, his face swimming in the well of tears. Jason tore the dumb domino mask from his face, not caring about the sting, and he whipped it at Dick's face.

"You're a bastard," he accused, his voice trembling. He curled up on the floor, tears glistening on his ruddy cheeks. "I d-don't want you near m-me. I just wa— wa-ant to be _alone_!"

"I know," Dick said. His voice was soft, and it was simple, and it was stifling. And it was sweet, too, like a lullaby—

—_you asleep, Jay? You're missing the best_—

"You don't know _anything_."

Jason was dizzy, and he could see Barbara standing a few feet away, her arms folded across her chest, and a light obscuring her face. Wasn't her father going to come home? Did he just not show up sometimes? He had to wonder. But then, he didn't really give a fuck, did he?

"Yes, I do," Dick said, kneeling beside Jason, careful not to touch him. "I know that you're angry at me for not finding Tim yet. I know that you're scared he might die, or… or worse, and I know that you blame yourself for the entire situation in the first place."

Jason shuddered, a wraithlike hand sliding down his spine, tingling and scraping at his skin. A soft sob broke through his lips, and Jason tried to muffle it with his hands, but it was too late, and he was left hiccupping and clawing thoughtlessly at his cheeks. He shook his head, pushing at Dick's chest as he wrapped his arms around Jason's shoulders.

"You don't know a-anything," Jason repeated. "You don't get it. You can't get it!"

"I understand what you're feeling," Dick said, his voice a quiet sigh in Jason's ear. It sounded like a whimper and a breath and a song all at once. "I understand, because I feel it too. Can you believe me? I don't know what to do, Jay. I have _no idea_ what to do, and that scares me to death."

"You liar," Jason rasped, choking through his sobs. He twisted in Dick's arms. "Get o-off!"

"I can't lose both of you," Dick murmured, clutching Jason with all of his strength. There was no chance of tearing free. And as Jason sat, gasping and sobbing, he found he didn't really want to. He shook, his body slumping, and he buried his face in Dick's chest. _He smells like Bruce…_

"I'm sorry," Jason rasped, his voice muffled. "I-I'm so fucking so— sorry…"

There was a horribly noticeable difference between Dick Grayson and Nightwing. Nightwing was Batman's perfect protégé, a leader, the golden child Jason could never ever live up to. But Dick was Jason's brother. Dick could fuck up too. And Dick could admit that. He smelled like sweat and Kevlar and dried leaves and rain water. It was an odd smell, the smell of a soldier perhaps, but it was a comfort to a dead boy.

"It's okay," Dick said, his lips pressed against Jason's hair. He sounded close to crying too. "We'll figure this out, okay? Me, you, Babs, and Tim."

Jason wanted to bark a mirthless laugh, but all that would come up was bile and spittle, so he swallowed thickly, and let the whirl of smells overtake his senses. Jason could feel himself swimming between dream and lucidity. "Don't lie to me," Jason whispered.

Dick said nothing more. He merely held Jason, gently combing back his hair with the tips of his fingers, and it was all that he needed. Jason fell asleep content, and for once, he had nothing to be scared of. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, he could feel himself falling into a hazy daydream, a half-faded memory from a time that he could not quite recall, curled into Dick's side as the boy told him stories to lull him into slumber.

* * *

The smell had grown so putrid, Tim had gotten sick during the night, and now he was laying in half-dried puke. It didn't bother him, though. He was in too much pain to notice. His entire body was covered in deep gashes, wounds of all shapes and sizes marring his bare skin. The leg wound was a ghost of an ache now, the Joker's knife going haywire in its quest to learn every inch of Tim's skinny body. After a while the knife had gotten boring. After a while, Tim had stopped caring how many times his skin had been ripped and torn and flayed and toyed with. All he cared about was surviving now. Pride was just a concept. And it had been torn away from him with his clothes and his skin and his will.

The burns were the worst. They were past the point of bubbling and blistering, and now his skin was pealing, and _god_, it felt like hellfire was licking at his abdomen. It was everlasting, and Tim knew that it would scar. He was certain a good portion of his body would be scar tissue if— _when, when, __**when**_— he got out of this. He had no comfortable place to lay anymore, for his sides were stuck full of lazy stitches from deep stab wounds that the Joker had prodded at, making the flesh sort of ooze. His back was nothing but a mess of angry red lashes, bloody and throbbing from the whipping Tim had received sometime during the day. That was the thing about wherever he was. The sky was visible sometimes.

There was a body. Or two. Or five. Tim wasn't sure because he hadn't moved in a while. He didn't want to move. Part of him just wanted to die, to let the pain just melt away… but then, what about Bruce? _I can't do that to him_, Tim thought. _I have to survive. For Bruce, and Alfred, and Dick, and… and Jason too_. The scent was so foul that Tim was close to puking again. Rotting flesh mingled with the scent of burnt flesh, of blood and vomit and piss.

Tim pried his eyes open. His eyelashes were crusty from tears and blood, and his eyelids objected vehemently. They felt heavy and thick. His throat was dry, and so were his lips, cracked and dry and bloody. He was parched, and he was starving— his stomach was long since the point of growling, and now Tim was positive it was in the act of devouring itself. _I could always eat my fingers_, Tim reasoned. _I just need to get past my gag reflex. If I can do that, and get my teeth around the ligaments and bite through the tendons_—

Of course, Tim wasn't quite so desperate. Not yet.

The smell was getting worse. Had it been that bad the night before? Tim had to suppose so, after all he'd puked over it. He couldn't fathom what it was exactly he'd thrown up, because he hadn't eaten in days. But he had found something, and he could still taste the acridness of bile and vomit. Tim stared ahead of him, focusing on the quick, precise movements of a spider not so far away, spinning itself a web_. I bet I could eat you_, Tim thought_. If you were just a little closer_…

He decided to try and get his mind off his pain and hunger. However, the only thing that he could think of was listing the stages of deterioration a body went through post mortem. _Well, after the heart stops, the flesh pales and grows taut,_ Tim recalled numbly. _The bowels and bladder empty, and… and_…

He was trying to remember. Things were growing so fuzzy lately. Tim had to remind himself sometimes about little things, favorite color and birthday and the month. Tim wasn't sure what day it was. He was tired, and he was teetering on the edge of sane and animalistic. It was almost funny.

"You wanna know why I have you right now, bird boy?" The Joker licked his lips, leaning over Tim with a smile so big it hurt Tim's facial muscles just to look at it. "You've got your buddy to thank. The Red Hood."

Tim bristled at the mention of Jason. _He doesn't know_, Tim told himself. _He can't have any idea that it's Jason_. Tim felt himself being hefted up, and his entire body objected, and he gasped, whimpering a little as the acid-burned skin of his chest stretched and pealed and snapped.

"You know, for someone working so close to you… well, he must be a peach. I look forward to meeting him." The Joker laughed, swinging Tim around. Tim collapsed on the ground skidding and gasping and shaking in agony. Tim heaved, his heart pounding, and he looked up, his eyes glistening with tears. _The sky_… It was a bold blue, somewhere up there, and he could see it between the cracks and steel beams… Tim was on his knees, shakily fending off the pain to just… if he crawled far enough maybe he could find an opening…

The Joker grabbed him back the back of his neck, and Tim muffled a scream by pressing his lips together. "Your Hood friend?" the Joker hissed, laughter edging in his tone. "He set me loose. Just thought you'd want to know."

Tim felt a sinking feeling inside him, and he couldn't help but let a soft sob leave his lips. He couldn't deal with it. He didn't care if it was true or not. It hurt too much. _Jason left me to find the Joker_, Tim realized. It stung. "He…" Tim's mouth fumbled over the words. His tongue felt heavy and desiccated. "He only… wanted…"

"Save your breath," the Joker giggled, shoving Tim hard. His face hit the ground, grinding against gravel. Pain shuddered through him, and blood pooled around Tim's mouth, flowing from his nose and bursting from the shredded skin of his lips. "_Seriously_ now— do it."

Tim did. He rationed his breaths, and he tried not to cry. The Joker strolled lazily around him, tapping his foot to the beat of an imaginary tune. "Hmm… You know, I _was_ just going to kill you. That was the plan, but… well, I'm not one for planning, see. I just _do_." The Joker swooped down, catching Tim's chin between two gloved fingers and jerking his head back. Blood smeared against his white cloves, staining them crimson. Tim could only stare up at him, wondering if he was glaring. He couldn't really tell. "So, what are you gonna do?"

There was a soft click, but it sounded thunderous in the silence. Tim didn't _know_ what to do, and his breath had caught in his throat as the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, cold and threatening to blow his brains to kingdom come. _This is it, this is it_… Tim tried to compose himself, but… he had never been quite so good at the steel-faced game that the Bats played.

Tim felt it bubbling in his chest before he could stop it. It clawed rapidly at his throat, digging its poisonous claws into flesh, and it burst forward, slipping from busted lips in a spluttering song, blood spurting from his mouth and splattering across the Joker's pallid face. He laughed so hard it hurt. _Did he gas me…?_ The look that passed the Joker's blood flecked face suggested otherwise. Tim laughed, his body at its breaking point, and he laughed until he was sore, and then laughed a little more. He was tired. And he remembered then, that he had sworn to himself. _Whatever it takes…_

The Joker laughed along. Their laughs were eerily similar when ringing together. Tim laughed so hard, tears were rolling down his grimy, blood streaked cheeks. He was gasping, choking, cackling madly, and his chest screamed for air but he just couldn't stop. He didn't know what he was doing, and it terrified him. _Have I gone crazy? Am I crazy now? Why can't I stop…_

"You know, bird boy!" the Joker gasped, shoving Tim back to the ground. Tim twitched and tittered and tossed his head back, eyes wide and tear-filled and terrified. "Get up. I just thought of the _best_ joke!"

Tim shuddered, his laughter breaking apart into soft rasps, and he blinked up at the Joker, his vision hazy from the tears. The Joker was nothing but a shadow, a silhouette in the dank prison. Tim wasn't sure he could stand— no, it seemed impossible. How could he get up when his skin was practically peeling of his bones? _But… I'm Robin, right? And Robin can do it. Robin can do anything._

Once when Tim had been younger, back when he'd been playing at sleuthing with nothing but a camera and a prayer, he'd seen Robin take down at least half a dozen thugs in an alleyway— Tim had noticed then that Robin had been bleeding rather profusely from the leg. And yet, Robin had been able to overcome that and be the _best_. Tim tried to remember more, but it was a faded memory, long since buried in the back of his mind. _Jason was the best_, Tim thought, pushing himself onto his knees_. I could never replace him. I could never live up to his standard._

Tim sat for a moment, his breath rattling in the silence. And then he began to laugh again. This laugh was sharp and bitter and it ricocheted across the cavernous prison. He bit down on his tongue as he pushed himself up, his body screaming, shuddering in objection, pain lancing throughout it. He was quaking so badly that he could barely see, tears and haze obscuring his vision, vertigo hitting him hard.

He stood on unsteady bones, biting back sobs and laughter and bile and a long, defeated sigh. Tim understood now. There was a game to play, and Tim was just a tiny piece. And if he was not careful, he'd crumble. Of course, he was already unstable. Just a little push was all he needed to…

"Now," the Joker breathed, cocking the gun and pointing, one eye squinting closed. "What are you gonna do?"

Tim swallowed, his breath rattling and his head ringing and laughter building in his chest. He stared at the Joker, a grin twitching at the corners of his lips. _Whatever it takes…_

* * *

The screaming was worse the longer it was listened to. The bare terror and agony that tore at the air with every vicious peal was chilling, and it made everything seem muddled and hot and unbearable. The more he listened, the more he felt as though he was losing his mind. The image of Tim's pale, writhing body as the acid ate at his chest, the ringing laughter that followed every shaky, pain-filled scream.

Jason was rewatching the video, three days later, and once again he was beginning to doubt. He wasn't trying to be pessimistic, but the more he watched the video, the less he could believe that someone could come out of this situation alive. Tim was strong, but not that strong. Jason wasn't strong. He wasn't strong enough for this, and it hurt, because Tim had helped him. Despite everything, despite all of Jason's bullshit, Tim had cared and had tried, and Jason was repaying him with cynicism and doubt.

_This is all my fault_, Jason thought bitterly, biting down hard on the cap of his pen._ I just wanted to make things right. I never wanted you to get hurt_.

But the harsh truth was prevalent. Jason Todd's presence had caused nothing but grief and destruction, and it was only a matter of time before someone else wound up dead. It wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth the pain. Why was he alive? Why did he have to be alive again? Obviously things had been better off when he'd been dead. Everything was going to shit, and he was the reason why.

Jason heard the doorbell ring through the screams, but he decided to ignore it, scribbling down useless notes about the extent of Tim's injuries. They were all trying to dissect the video as much as they could, hoping they'd be able to find Tim through the clues left for them. Dick was getting close— but then, that could just be a lie told to Jason in order to keep him calm. Who knew?

It was obvious Jason should have gone upstairs when he'd heard the doorbell ring, but honestly? He just didn't give a fuck anymore. If someone found out he was alive, some elaborate cover story would be thought up. Case closed. Not important. But Jason paused the video and listened, and what he heard forced him to his feet with a sigh. He tossed his headphones down on the table, tucking his pen behind his ear as he wandered into the foyer. Alfred looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sir?" Alfred asked, the underlying question resonating there. _What on earth are you doing?_

Jason ignored it though. He stepped up beside Alfred, leaning against the doorframe. "Stephanie Brown?" he asked, already knowing the answer. The girl was skinnier than she had been the night they'd been rescued from the Reach, but otherwise she looked the same. Her blonde hair was loose, framing her round, inquisitive face. She was still as doe-eyed and innocent looking as he remembered.

"Uh, yeah," she said slowly. Her eyes flickered between Jason and Alfred for a moment, and she folded her arms across her chest. "You're the creepy brother, right?"

"I resent that." Jason felt empty as he smiled placidly. _Ah_, he thought, _so this is how they do it_. "Did he really call me creepy?"

Stephanie shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ears. "So, uh, Alfie here says Tim's sick?"

"Dangerously contagious," Jason lied easily. "He's been in bed for like, a week."

A pale eyebrow was quirked at him. "Sounds serious," she said. She looked between them again, and she cocked her head. "You two don't seem sick. So he can't be _that _contagious, right?"

Jason's eyes narrowed at her. "Look, he can't talk to you right now," Jason said. He was done caring whether or not he sounded harsh. "Sorry you had to come all the way here for nothing, but you have bad timing."

Stephanie looked down, biting her lip nervously. Alfred watched her, his old eyes filling with pity and sadness, and Jason felt sad too. Sad, because Tim had been helping this girl. Who knew if he'd be able to finish what he'd started?

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked Alfred, eyes widening a little.

_I don't know, blondie_, Jason thought sadly. "Master Timothy just needs a good rest," Alfred told the girl. "I'm certain he'll be back soon. Once he's himself again, I'm sure he'll want to talk to you."

The lie was unbearable. The way her eyes lit up with hope, the eager nod she gave as she clasped her hands behind her back and smiled. The girl had no idea, and that was what hurt. They were giving her false hope_. Her dad hurts her_, Tim had said. Jason could only stare, watching her grin, and nod, and duck away, waving back at them brightly. _  
_

"Master Jason," Alfred said gently as they watched Stephanie leave. "That was not very wise. Suppose she happens to see a picture of Jason Todd, and recognizes you?"

"Then she recognizes me," Jason said, shrugging. The blonde had tugged a hood over her head, walking at a steady pace. "What is she gonna do? She's a runaway. No one is gonna listen to her."

Jason turned away, wandering back into the house. The truth was, Jason wasn't sure what to do anymore. He felt… disgusting and useless, but that was nothing new. He wondered about Stephanie Brown, and he wondered about who would help her if they failed. Jason plopped down before his computer again, pulling his pen from behind his ear.

Jason scrawled down at the corner of the page he'd been working upon. _Save S. B. _It was all he could do for the moment. After all, he didn't know her, and he didn't really _care_… but Tim did. That was what was important. Tim cared about _everyone_, and Jason? Jason cared about himself. That was the fact of it. It stung to know that he was such a selfish bastard. But he could try, maybe.

"Sir, perhaps you should eat something?" Alfred offered, keeping a careful distance from Jason.

He hummed, shaking his head. For a moment Jason simply sat, the butler standing before him expectantly. And then Jason sighed, pushing back his headphones and looking up at Alfred tiredly. "Stephanie was a Reach captive," Jason explained slowly. "We talked to her a little. I don't know, I guess she caught Tim's eye, or something. I mean, she's hot? I don't get the way Tim's mind works, okay?"

Alfred looked amused. "Alright, sir," he said, chuckling. The old man studied him for a moment. "I do think you should eat something, however. Keep your strength up."

"I have plenty of strength, Alf'," Jason said, gritting his teeth. _What I'm missing is a little brother_.

Alfred had no choice but to relent. Jason took a deep breath, pulling his headphones back over his ears, and he listened. Screams, and laughter, and the sound of flesh sizzling. The marks running all along Tim's body, angry red lacerations winding around his arms and legs and torso, erratic cuts and gashes and lashes. Wounds that would never properly heal. Jason could almost hear the mantra ringing with every rasping scream, sharp and agonized_— Batman's gonna come, they're gonna come for me, they _are—

Jason couldn't watch the video anymore. He felt sickened, disturbed to the point that he could no longer breathe correctly. He just wanted to let the world slip away, to slip into the passage of time and sleep forever. But he couldn't. He had no choice but to keep at the endless search, and every passing moment felt like a lifetime. Jason didn't really understand it. He felt so horrible _all the time_— and he just… he just didn't know how to fix it.

For a few hours Jason kept himself busy with looking at the files on the growing list of Joker victims. Since the first victim had been found by Batgirl and Red Hood, two more had popped up. The Joker wasn't hiding them. He made a spectacle of his kills, dressing them up and motley and tying crude notes to their necks. Usually Joker victims didn't have any connection to each other— the Joker didn't care about patterns. Just causing mayhem.

It didn't take much digging to realize what was similar about the three victims.

"Oh," Jason breathed, leaning back against the couch behind him. The room felt hot then, hot and stifling and clawing at his skin with fiery breath. The ghost of a long quelled fire licked at Jason's skin, piercing his skin and bones in a ferocious explosion. Jason swore under his breath, his heart pounding in his ears, and he shook his head, checking Batman's database with numb fingers gliding across the keys. He knew what he was looking for. He knew that praying he was wrong made him an awful person. But, then, he was already the worst. A demon from hell, right? A zombie, a freak, an anomaly so rotten to the core that everything good that grazed him withered up on contact.

"Fuck," he hissed, staring at the screen with wide eyes. "Shit, shit, shit!"

_That motherfucker_, Jason thought, staggering to his feet after scribbling across the page in his notebook in bold letters, _**CONSTRUCTION SITE**_. He left his laptop open on the table with the tab still open so they would know what he had found. He would activate the tracker in his hood on the way._ He knew we'd never check the place I died, not in a million years. That stupid fucking clown!_

The victims had all been construction workers. They'd all been working at the same site, a building that had taken the place of an old warehouse that had blown several years back in a gas accident. That was the lie told to keep Robin's death from being perverted into something it hadn't been. Batman had been very… very careful to keep Robin's memory squeaky clean. He'd died. Honorably. Not many people knew how, apparently.

Alfred, thankfully, had not been hanging around enough to notice him disappear into the Batcave. Jason figured he'd have a good ten minutes before someone got on his tail. That was enough time. The world had sputtered and frozen, and it was like Jason was the only one alive now, running against the current and the ticking off of seconds before everything went to hell again.

Jason stocked up on weapons, mostly the lethal kind. Bombs. Extra pointy batarangs. Guns. Jason had been hiding his holster behind his jacket as of late, but now he kept it in plain sight. Hell, he added two more. He wanted to be ready for the kill. Jason was almost jealous that Arsenal had a weapon attached to him 24/7. It could come in handy real quick in a pisspot like Gotham.

_I shouldn't be going alone_, was a thought that stung him as he loaded his pistols. _This is what got me killed the first time._

Yes, that was true. The first time, Jason had gone after the Joker in a rush of brash words and misguided judgment. He'd been an idealist, a child, an innocent lost in a sea of fire and blood. Death had given Jason the clarity he needed. Survival was not necessary tonight. Jason would gladly put himself in another coffin, as terrifying as the prospect was— but only if he could drag the Joker down with him.

Jason saw his reflection in the monitor as he reached for his hood. Something stirred within him, an emotion that he had thought died with him two years before. Jason stared, the dark screen distorting his face. He looked younger and gaunter, like a ghost in a mirror. There was something nagging at him. There was something that he owed, a debt and a few words that he had never gotten to speak the first time.

With a heavy heart, Jason sat down in Batman's chair, feeling like a very small child trying on his father's shoes. He was swallowed by the space._ I should go_, Jason thought, his one hand resting on his helm, the other pressing against the screen. It lit up, and Jason could only bow his head in shame, tears prickling his eyes. They were tears of anger and resentment and fear.

Bruce would be disappointed in him. That was something Jason knew to be true. And yet, Jason couldn't stop himself. _If I survive, I can just delete it_, Jason reasoned. And so he pressed _record_.

* * *

Getting there had been simple. The sable hues of outer-city Gotham made Jason think of a funeral shroud, tattered and ready to be used once more. Jason ditched Nightwing's bike a block or so away from the construction site. Jason was dizzily trying to sort out his own mangled emotions, his heart hurting and his anger rising. He was furious, and he was terrified, and _god fucking damn it_! He was going to kill the bastard clown!

Jason had never been quite so naturally light-footed as Dick, so it took some effort to keep himself as silent as a wisp in the night. All of Jason's instincts told him to flee. It was a frantic push that hissed in his ears, pleading with him to run back, to leave the skeletons where they lie. But Jason Todd was no coward, and he was no fool. He understood the risk he was taking. He could only hope that he was not too late.

The night was unnaturally cool for spring, and it chilled him to the bone. Wind whipped against his jacket, whistling against his helmet and murmuring soft warnings in his ear. Jason Todd did not recognize his surroundings. He tried to remember that night, but it had been a harsh blur of fire and pain and the breathless sound of laughter.

It was unclear when nearing the site, tarps wavering in the breeze, whether or not this was the Joker's current residence. A steel skeleton rose into the sky, glistening against the darkness, half covered in plastic draperies and unsteady platforms. The wind wafted a rancid scent toward him, a scent that the hood had masked once before. Now it seemed it was much too strong.

_Decomposing bodies_. Jason stood for a moment, dizzy and enraged. Then he was moving, his body curling against the wind, and his feet sliding against steel beams, easily catching in ruts and pushing off, sailing in absolute quiet. He was a shadow. That was how Batman had taught him to be, and now he had no choice but to be a shadow of the night, crawling back on its hands and knees to the monster that had spawned it.

His back hugged a support beam, arms hooking behind him as he attached an explosive to the base of the steel. There was a sinking pit below him, a cavity in the earth that stretched _down_ and _down_ and _**down**_— hell in a dark chasm. It looked endless, and it was something perhaps from a nightmare. It whispered to him, as things tended to, and it told him to run. But instead, Jason braced himself, his heart thudding in his ears, the beat erratic and heavy… and he dove.

The fall was nothing, really, but a lurching in his stomach as he tumbled downward in a spiral, his fingers digging into his belt. He rolled upon impact, grimacing as he listened to gravel spitting under the pressure. Not even he could have accounted for the loose pebbles littering the bottom of the pit, and there was no way to avoid it. So Jason went with it, on his feet in seconds and whirling around and around, scanning the area.

His nose led him to the rotting corpses laying piled on top of each other not far from where Jason had landed. They were all torn up, skin hanging and dried blood caking their dark, bloated skin as well as the gravel beneath them. Jason stared at them, at their broken limbs and beaten bodies, and his stomach stirred in revulsion. Jason had activated his tracker already, and he knew he didn't have long before Dick and Barbara showed up.

A laugh pierced through the darkness, and Jason threw himself to the ground as a knife cut through the air overhead. Jason flung himself to his feet, spinning around in a swirl of gravel and faintly blinking pellets. They were tossed into the air, flashing dimly in the darkness, and Jason dove away they exploded, sending trails of fire through the air, sending the pit aglow.

The Joker wasn't hard to find. Jason stood with his muscles tense, his body ready to pounce at a moment's notice, and luckily for him he was ready. The last time, Jason had been severely unprepared for the monster behind the pallid face and manic grin. But then, back then Jason had been a boy with too many fantasies, too many precious beliefs that had been shattered with the majority of his bones the night he'd died.

"You!" laughed the Joker, his voice breaking through the silence like a thunderclap. "Ooh, Hoodie, I'm just—" The Joker choked on his laughter, pulling a long, polka-dotted handkerchief from his breast pocket. He gave a throaty sob, his yellow teeth flashing in the darkness. "I'm just so happy to see you!"

"Well, I'm charmed." Jason wasn't in the mood for banter. Not with the Joker. The snark felt empty and bitter, and his fingers locked around one of the guns holstered to his chest. Just… just one shot could do it…

The atmosphere felt heavy, the air thick and inexorably stifling, clawing at his insides and crawling in his lungs. The scent of decaying flesh hit him, and it hit him hard, like a series of sharp, blunt blows smacking straight at his stomach, over and over and over, precise yet erratic, pushing and beating and dragging bile _up_ and _up_ and _**up**_. Jason could feel the bodies, so close to him he could just feel the flesh sloughing off the bone. He felt it, and he was locked in a paralyzing fear.

_Where's Tim?_

He was conscious of the fact that Tim was nowhere in sight. He was also aware that the chances of his body being pinned under the pile of withering corpses were pretty damn good. The thought made Jason's knees buckle, and his body went rigid his fingers going taut around the gun as he whipped it out of its holster. The Joker took one look at it, handkerchief still in hand, and he barked a laugh so obnoxious and shrill, it pierced Jason to the bone and burrowed into his heart, clawing and squirming at his innards.

"Oh, gosh, Hoodie, a gun? For me? You shouldn't have!"

Jason had to take a deep, shuddering breath before speaking. "I'm gonna give you thirty seconds to tell me what you did with Robin before I put ten bullets through your chest," Jason said stolidly. He knew thirty seconds was too long. He knew it, and so he lied. He'd shoot at fifteen. "Start talking, clown. One. Two…"

"Now, now," the Joker tsked, waggling his finger at the air. He sauntered, long, gangly legs stretching forward as he cocked his head, eyes widening in a delighted madness. "All things come to those who wait, eh, Hood? Now, about your… well, _you_. Listen, I appreciate the homage, really… but might I give you some fashion advice? A hundred and one tips from your good ol' Uncle J!"

"Twelve," Jason spat, cocking the gun. "Thirteen."

"I'm not really in the interrogation mood…" the Joker drawled. "_Buuuuut_…"

_Fifteen_. Jason knew that there was a chance that he might never get the information he needed if he killed the Joker now. But it was so tempting… he was just standing there, grinning madly, and Jason knew he could do it, oh he knew it… but then, maybe that was a lie. Maybe he'd been lying to himself this entire time. Maybe he couldn't do it.

Jason decided to shoot anyway. It was only one shot, and his hands were shaking so badly that he _missed_, the gunshot sounded so deafeningly that his ears were ringing afterward. The thing was, he felt nothing as he watched the Joker choke on his chuckles, pointing and shrieking in hilarity about how he'd _missed_. And Jason could only feel himself falling backwards, his mind warping in time as he recalled drawing that same, laughing face on a wall, taking a knife in his hand. And he remembered how he _missed_ then, just as he'd _missed_ now.

_If there was ever an award for fucking up_, Jason thought, his fingers tightening around the gun. _I'd win a gold medal so fucking shiny, I'd see my sorry face in it every single time._

"Oh, Hood," the Joker said in his thin, breathy voice. "You're sooo disappointing. I thought you'd be funnier! Why does no one in this lousy town got a sense of humor, anyhow?"

"Because clowns like you take everything good about Gotham," Jason said, taking a step forward, "and you twist it up and spit it out tainted." His words were bitter, but in his heart he felt very much like a black hole. A big gaping destructive force, sucking up all emotions into pure void.

"I'm flattered!" The mad man's eyes gleamed in the darkness, crazed and flashing like hot beacons. "So, I'm just dying to know why you sprung me… but, I think someone else wants to know a teensy bit more!"

Laughter bounced around in the darkness, shrill and horrifying, ripping through the air like talons in flesh. It struck Jason to the bone, and then dug further, clawing within him and settling in the deepest chasm of his heart. And all the while, Jason could only stare at the Joker, bile stirring in his stomach. Because though the Joker was smiling, his grin big and wide and terrible— the laughter had not come from that unnatural mouth.

Jason had heard the whistle of the crowbar before it hit his back. But… he was too shocked, too startled in his own epiphany to dodge. It connected with his spine, sending him sprawled across the grown, pebbles flying and his gun sliding away. He was denying the inevitable truth even as it stood over him, pallid face glowing in the blackness.

_No_, Jason thought, scrambling backwards, falling over his limbs in panic. _It's a trick. A low one, but still. It's just not real. This isn't real._

Tim's face was a youthful echo of the Joker's. A pale, stretched face, with a smile too big and too crazed, and eyes wide and gleaming in the dark. It was like every nightmare Jason had ever had, and it was condensed into one piercing stare. There was nothing for Jason to do but gape, because he could not have imagined this, not in a million years. This wasn't Tim. It _couldn't_ be Tim, because Tim was stronger than this!

"Harley told me just how possessive you are of our precious birdy," the Joker cooed from behind Jason. There was a pounding in his head, a ferocious scream that was beating at the walls of his mind, snarling and ripping— because no, no, no, this wasn't happening! "I saw the charm!"

Tim stood half-cloaked in shadow, but the crowbar glistened all the same. Jason saw that it was still caked with his blood, and that made him gag a little. He felt hot, sweat building at his neck, and he knew he might throw up, but he couldn't— he couldn't do a single blessed thing, because this wasn't Tim Drake, it wasn't, it wasn't— _just a trick, just a lie, it's not real, wake up, Jay, wake up_—

"Now, after we've wrapped up this little reunion, we'll move onto the first Boy Blunder, and the girly bat. I think we'll gift wrap them, hmm? Put pretty little bows on their snapped femurs! Ha ha!"

The Joker sounded distant. His voice was disembodied, a faint cackle that resonated inside Jason's head, and shook him at the core. Once, not so long ago, Jason had felt nothing. He'd give anything to go back to that stage, that somnolent state of half-life and half trudging on and on. At least then he could deal with pain. Now he was just sort of sitting, shaking, body rejecting all commands, and betrayal and shock and terror and anguish rushed through his heart, waves and waves and waves of unbearable emotions pushing him backwards, deep into his own cracked mind.

_Not you. You're better than this, better than me, you've always been better, so why? Why? Why? _"Why?" he choked, his voice brittle. "_Why_?"

Tim stared at him for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. They were hazy, glossed over with a vestige of being only semi-present. They were not the same blue they had once been, not the same curious, innocent gaze of a boy who was far too wise, and still far too naïve. They were not the Joker's eyes either, though, and that was not a reassurance. The Joker had eyes wide and flashing, never stilling and always alert. Tim's eyes were dim, as if a light within them had been extinguished.

His laughter sounded forced, crushed glass in his throat, and he spat the cackles like blood and curses and cigarette smoke. None of that belonged in Tim's throat, no— Jason was the one who swore and choked and breathed in toxins. Tim was the goody-goody— the perfect replacement. And behind it all, Jason could hear Tim screaming, hear him pleading, and it hurt worse than the crowbar connecting with his jaw did.

He could hear the helmet crack, but Tim kept going, laughter spilling from his shattered smile, and Jason curled up against the ground, his mind brimming with a sea of memories and laughter and screams, and thoughts of Bruce, Bruce— _they're gonna come, they will, keep it together Jay—_ but no, he'd lost all sense of composure long ago, and now he was a broken bird, and he was screaming.

He felt blood on his face, and he realized that his helmet had caved, broken apart and sliced against his skin, and now more of his blood caked that goddamn fucking crowbar. Tim's laughter mingled with the Joker's, and it was so grating, Jason snarled a curse, spat something so foul and inaudible that it came out like a garbled hiss.

This was all he knew. This feeling? The dark, gnarled pit of rage and loathing that curled around his heart and squeezed. With every _smack_, every harsh pang of pain, Jason's rancor grew. He was too volatile to let this happen. He gave himself to his instinct, and he rolled out of the crowbar's path, listening to it _clang_ against the gravel. He dove, his fingers closing around the gun, and he flipped onto his back, his mind screaming at him to squeeze the rigger, his heart hissing just the same.

The gun felt heavy in his trembling hands, his body aching all over, and his helmet half shattered, one eye visible beneath the blood and cracked red paint. _I hate you_, Jason decided, staring up at Tim, who held the crowbar very far from him, as if it was something utterly repugnant. It was. It was a monstrous piece of filth, and he wished it would just disintegrate. _I never hated you before, but I think I do now. I hate you, but I hate myself even more, 'cause I did this. This is my creation. You're my fault, Timmy, and this is just… this is just another fuck up._

His fingers were on the trigger. His breath was shaky, and his eyes were wide and teary. This wasn't fair. He didn't want any of this. But everything in him told him to _shoot_.

The gun dropped, clamoring against the ground. Jason stared at it, and he slumped in resignation. _No_, he thought, breathing in blood and dust and decomposing flesh. _No, that's not true. I can't hate you. I just can't._ He bowed his head, watching with red hazed vision as his blood split against the pebbles below. He felt as though he was kneeling before an executioner, with Tim holding the crowbar like an axe, and Jason— well, it was an apt end for one guilty of such a heinous crime.

Tim had scooped up the gun. Jason felt it hovering over his forehead, its presence vaguely familiar. Ah, it was the incorporeal sense that had clung to the hallucinations Jason had of Tim. The soft imbalance, _the nagging thought— no, nope, not a chance, this isn't real._ And yet it was very, very real. It was just so silly. Tim, holding a gun? Yeah, right! But then, was this even Tim anymore? Perhaps Tim was dead, and this was just his corpse, strung up into a living marionette of bones and blood, but not quite there all the way. Like Jason.

Maybe Jason should have put Tim out of his misery after all.

After the laughing had died, Jason realized that Tim was hesitating. Something swelled inside Jason's mangled heart, something akin to _hope_ (stupid, so stupid), and he raised his head. Tim's face was a pale, twitching canvas, blood splattered against his white cheeks, and streams of tears running steadily down them. The barrel of the gun was between Jason's eyes, but it was quivering, just in the same way it had in Jason's hands.

He couldn't say anything. He couldn't beg, or apologize, because his voice was stuck inside his throat, and was came out of his mouth was a breathy sigh. Because Tim was in there somewhere. That opened up two startling realizations. One, Tim could be salvaged from this cataclysm. Two, Tim was in there. Aware of what he was doing.

We're not so different, Jason thought, his own tears threatening to pool over as they stared at each other. Jason could sense a cape above him, the familiar sound escaping any ear untrained to it. _You and me, Timmy. Maybe we always were damaged goods, huh?_ Even thinking that made him feel like a piece of shit.

"Well?" the Joker asked, and Jason inhaled sharply at the sound of his voice. "Tick tock! We've got a schedule!"

Tim's eyes didn't leave Jason's face as he laughed, a sharp, erratic chuckle that shook the gun, pressing it up against Jason's forehead. And Jason closed his eyes, half-wondering if he'd imagined hearing the cape.

A gunshot pierced the air, splitting the night in two halves— the living, and the not-quite-dead.

Jason's eyes snapped up, and he looked up at Tim in confusion, in awe, and he let out a gasp, his body shaking as relief washed over him. He twisted around, listening to the Joker choke and gasp and laugh, calling out words that just didn't reach Jason's brain, because his heart was pounding too loud. Then, a dark form dropped down before the Joker, red hair flashing in the faint spill of moonlight. Another form dropped behind Tim, and the gun dropped, once again clattering against the ground.

Tim dropped just as fast, clapping his hands over his mouth to muffle the earsplitting scream released from his quivering lips. Jason and Tim knelt across from each other, staring into each other's eyes with the same wide-eyed, terrified expression. Only Tim was shaking with sobs, and Jason was shaking with relief. And guilt. The guilt was overwhelming. It gnawed at his insides, clawing and beating like a wild animal.

Jason watched as Dick knelt beside Tim, gloved fingers brushing away the vast stream of tears streaking the boy's ashen face. It was about time they'd arrived, but then, what did Jason know? Other than the immense guilt that consumed him, and he could barely look at Dick, barely look at Tim, because this was _all his fault_. And Tim fell against Dick's chest, muffling his screams and laughter and sobs against the blue bird emblazoned there.

As Dick held Tim, his head moved toward Jason. There was a moment where they stared at each other, Jason's one eye wide and welling with tears. Jason jumped to his feet then, not even vaguely away of the arm reaching out to him, and he ignored the blazing pain as he clambered up from the pit, his feet catching against the steel beams as he fled, up and up and up, flinging himself into the night with fear and guilt and uncertainty pushing him farther and farther, rushing him away from the place where the Joker had killed him, and destroyed Tim.

And when he ran from Gotham City, he couldn't bring himself to look back.

* * *

_I split it again. Yeah. Will I ever finish?_

_Anyway, I have a reason for splitting it. It's been over a month, and I didn't get to the point I wanted to, so I split it. _

_I edited some of this, but not all, so there will be mistakes. Also, about the Joker Jr. plot? It's my favorite. Like, one of my first YJ stories was about Tim being Joker Jr. I chose this plot because I needed something that would drive Jason to run away, but I didn't want to kill anyone off so... yeah, I figured this would do the trick._

_=] It's shorter than the last one, but hey, unlike the past three chapter which span over months, this one is like, six days? Maybe?_


	5. the slip of your mind

**stages of deterioration**

**{the slip of your mind}**

He was scarcely aware of anything aside from his own rattling breaths, laughter and sobs spilling from his lips in sharp, mangled gasps, and the gnawing ache that spread all across his broken body. He only vaguely remembered the Batmobile, dark and filled with the sound of some wounded animal whimpering in the distance. He remembered curling up in the cape of someone— no, it was Barbara, he was certain of that— his body pressing into her side as he burrowed his face in her shoulder.

He heard them talking to him, but he was too tired and scared and filled with a crippling despair, he just didn't process the words. He clung to Barbara's cape even when they were no longer in the Batmobile, and he clung and screamed and thrashed when they stuck a needle in his arm. After that, the world went numb, and there was a strange, creeping hollow swallowing him up from within. He watched with vacant eyes as Dick scooped him up, carrying him to a room too bright and luminous, and it hurt a little, hurt his eyes and hurt his heart, because it was too bright for him, too much too fast.

He regained a bit of sense somewhere between being stripped of the rags that he'd been dressed up in, and being scrubbed very gingerly with a washcloth. Tim sat naked in a bathtub, shuddering against the water lapping at his wounds. He winced, pulling away as Dick brushed the burns on his chest, which were bubbled over and an ugly, mottled sallow hue. The water around him was turning a dingy gray, red swirls parting the murky bath.

"No," Tim breathed, his voice raw as he splashed and twisted away from Dick's careful touch. "No!"

"Tim…" Dick said, the words muffled. Someone had stuck cotton inside Tim's ears. There was someone laughing in the room, but Tim couldn't see who, so he tried to move away, but all he got was water in his mouth and diluted blood on Dick's face. "Shh. Shh, Tim, just a little longer, okay? Then Alfred can patch you up, and you'll be fine."

And Tim began to cry, biting his lower lip to suppress his laughter and sobs. He willingly turned his back to Dick so that the lashes running jaggedly across his spine, red and long and caked with blood, could be properly tended to. He buried his face in his knees, and he took deep breaths, trying to remember, to gain back some semblance of stability. The cloth stung against the spider-web of cuts marring Tim's bony back. But Tim stayed quiet, and he did nothing but shake, his body trembling against the heat of the water, and the cloth, and the blood running against his wan skin.

After a while, the stinging went away, and the steady strokes of the damp washcloth against his spine felt reassuring. Tim didn't feel any cleaner, but his mind was growing clearer, and he bit his tongue to keep himself from giggling. Tim felt very small, as if he'd regressed into a child, his body feeling weak and cumbersome and too tiny. He felt the ghost of long fingers rubbing against his shoulders, and Tim cried out aloud, twisting in the tub, and he looked around, eyes darting, but Dick's face was all that he could see.

"I'm sorry," Dick said, setting aside the bloody cloth. Tim shuddered, the feeling of overgrown fingernails digging into his skin scratching against the reality around him. "I'm done now. I'll go get Alfred."

"No," Tim rasped, his arms flying out, and his fingers catching against the blue bird sigil on Dick's chest. He clung with all the strength he could, body wracking with uncontrollable tremors. "Don't. Don't leave me, please, don't leave me, not again, please, please don't leave me, please, don't, don't, don't leave me, don't—"

Dick pulled Tim's head to his chest, muffling the pleas with strong arms and a soft murmur. "I'm not leaving, Tim. I'm not going anywhere."

Tim nodded mutely against Dick's chest, breathing heavy and uneven. He was scared to speak, because he couldn't bear the laughter, and he couldn't bear hearing himself. He sounded like something broken, a record on repeat, a drawstring toy whose only words were laced with poison. The water in the tub felt scalding, even though it was lukewarm now, and muddy and bloody and staining the pretty porcelain all dingy and dark.

Time passed, and Dick shifted his grip on Tim so that he could lift him easily out of the tub and rest him against the frigid tile. Tim flinched away from the ground, trembling as he scrambled, eyes wide and confused. He stammered, lips drawing, and he clamped his hands over his mouth, scratching at the skin of his lips and shaking his head. Then something draped over him, something warm and lightweight and feathery. He blinked rapidly, his fingertips gliding across the downy white towel, and he let a soft, shuddering sigh escape his lips. It smelled clean and yet there was a musty scent that made Tim want to bury his face in the towel and just suffocate on the scent. _Home…_

"Dick," Tim croaked. He pulled the towel tighter around himself, a hint of shame returning to his shattered sense of mind. He blinked a few more times, and he looked up at Dick's face, worn and exhausted and glossy eyed from worry and fear and despair. Tim curled up in the softness of the towel, and he rubbed his cheek against the feather-like fabric. "Dick…?"

"Here," Dick whispered. He managed a tight smile, and Tim pressed his lips together, a garbled moan the result of a stifled laugh. "I'm right here."

Tim closed his eyes, "Stay…" He took a deep breath, quaking so badly his teeth cracked against each other. "Stay?"

"I'm not going to leave you," Dick said steadily. "I'd never leave you alone, Tim, you're— you're my baby brother." He gave another smile, this one tremulous and sad. "I'm not leaving. Not now, not ever."

Tim could only stare, and he began to laugh, soft chuckles bouncing off the walls of the bathroom. Tim was so disgusted with himself, and began to cry, sniffling and hiccupping as he laughed. He hid his face from Dick, and in his heart he could stop this erratic mirth and sobs. But in his heart, he was still Robin. Now he wasn't so sure who he was.

_The Joker won_, Tim realized, feeling sickened. He sniffed, feeling childish and stupid as Dick wiped the tears and snot from Tim's face. _But… I'm home now. I'm home._

* * *

Jason Todd was not meant for the sea. There was a pull to it, that was certain, but not the kind that was healthy. It was the sweet seduction of the crushing depths that called to him, the relentless murmur to jump from the deck and let himself fall into the embrace of salt tainted waves and limitless water. There was ocean stretching all the way to the horizon, dark and thick, like the night sky had rippled up and grown a tiny bit saturated. Yeah, a tiny bit. _God, I'm such a fucking tool._

Luckily for Jason, though, the sea had been relatively kind. He hadn't gotten sick yet despite the ever-rocking ship, and though he slept in living quarters the size of a broom closet, he had to admit it was better than expected. When he'd boarded the container ship, he expected little comfort, and many, many sleepless nights full of anxiety, and nightmares, and guilt-ridden bouts of rage— oh, wait, yeah, that still happened.

However, he had a bed, and he had food, and no one questioned his lies. The crewmen were bought with a wad of cash and a false story. And that was that, the simplicity of traveling by ship to a place that even the crewmen were wary of. Jason had managed to avoid enough suspicion to get him this far, but he knew that soon they would begin to grow curious. When that time came, he knew his stay on the cargo ship was done.

_If we're on course_, Jason thought, pushing idly at the leaves on his plate. _I won't be here much longer at all._ The crewmen admitted that when they picked up stragglers, they didn't often eat with them, but since Jason was a kid they made an exception. Jason knew it was because they were worried he wouldn't eat otherwise. Hey, the bastards were perceptive at least. Luckily, none of them knew that Jason knew Italian, so they liked to speak freely in front of him.

"_Mangia,_ Pietro" a portly crewmen prompted Jason, swatting his shoulder gently. "Eat!"

"I'm eating," Jason responded in a bland tone. He picked at the salad, pressing his lips together firmly. The men who were on break watched him with curious, cautious eyes. A woman was sitting not so far away, playing solitaire— but even her dark, intelligent eyes flickered to Jason every now and again.

"_Si_," said the woman, Rosa, slapping a card down. The boat shuddered around them, the usual kind of shudder that came with the lash of waves against the ship's hull. She spoke in Italian, "Sure, he's eating. About as much as my old mouse did before he up and died."

Jason stared at his plate, and when the portly man— Jason forgot his name— looked away, Jason took a sip of his beer. The cabin was filled with half-contained chuckles, and a gangly man turned to Rosa. "_Topo_, eh? _Ragazetto_! Are you a mouse?"

"What?" Jason asked, feigning ignorance. "Sorry? Uh, _scuse_?"

"Rosa say, em…" The man, Vinny, snapped his fingers vigorously at Rosa. "She say you are a mouse."

Jason managed a smirk, and he leaned back in his chair. He felt no humor in it, though, and it felt tight and joyless upon his lips. "Do I look like a mouse, to you, lady?" Jason laughed, an empty ring that bounced off the walls of the cabin. They laughed with him, and one of the men grinned broadly at Jason.

"This one's fucked up," the man said in Italian, the grin still plastered brightly to his face. "Look at his eyes, Vin', he looks half dead."

"_Zitto_!" Vinny replied, frowning to himself. "Don't talk about a kid like that. If anyone's fucked up, Franco, it's you, you lazy bastard. The little boy does more work than you do!"

Franco scoffed, but did not deny the accusation. Once again Jason found himself staring at his food, and his stomach turned. He ate as much as he thought he could, but truth be told, he was still scared of getting seasick. He felt shitty enough without adding that particular misfortune to the list. Jason was tired, and his eyelids felt droopy and heavy, but whenever he closed his eyes he saw Tim's face, all gaunt and grinning and terrified of itself. _I almost killed him_, Jason thought numbly, stabbing at the lettuce on his plate. _I was going to kill him_.

"Where was it you are headed, Pietro?" asked Franco, in English this time, pale eyes peering curiously. They were wary just the same. "You say… you are seeking a head?"

"Yeah," Jason said. He didn't want to talk about it with them, though. The less they knew the better of they'd be. "Kinda. It's hard to explain, y'know?"

"You say you have family?" Rosa watched him with narrowed eyes. "They know you are coming?"

"Who do you think gave me the money for the passage?" Jason asked, smiling at her sweetly. It was only half a lie, really. The money was Bruce's, who was family. However, Jason had stolen it. Whatever, like Bruce would miss a few grand, right? "You guys got a map?"

Vinny pulled out a GPS for Jason from wherever— Jason noticed he had a bag with him only after the device was handed off. Jason searched the map greedily, eyes flashing over the latitude and longitude lines. In his mind he could pull apart the stretch of land and sea perfectly, drawing a web of lines from place to place, interconnecting ethereal strings, fate and wraiths tangling them all up in certain points. Jason handed the GPS back, knowing exactly where his destination was.

"I need a life boat," he declared suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. "If that GPS is correct, I've gotta be in one in about twenty minutes."

"Huh?" Vinny looked taken aback, and he looked to Franco, who looked equally baffled. Rosa was the one to laugh.

"Ah, I was wrong!" she cried in Italian, gesticulating wildly. "This boy isn't a mouse after all!"

"No," Franco said. "Instead he's a total loon."

Jason rolled his eyes. "_Io non sono pazzo_," Jason said breezily. _I am not crazy_. They all looked at him sharply, and for the first time since arriving on the ship, Jason felt something akin to mirth. He winked at them, shoving his hands into his pockets, and stalking out of the room. He had a sack of belongings to grab.

They asked him where he was going. Of course they would, why wouldn't they? They were being decent human beings by being worried for him, but it still pissed him off. So he chose to ignore them as he handed off a wad of bills to the captain before climbing into a lifeboat. Jason said goodbye, doing nothing but smirk when asked about his sudden knowledge of the Italian language. They watched him with fear in their eyes, not entirely sure what they were sending a teenage boy of to. But they called him Pietro (_Peter_ had been the name initially given, but they refused to call him that), and waved him goodbye. And off Jason went.

Jason, luckily for him, knew which way he was going. The wind directed him forward, and he rowed against the current of dark waters, turning off his mind in order to focus on the only thing he knew now. Ahead of him was a truth, and behind him was a lie. So he rowed, and rowed, and rowed until his arms screamed, and then he rowed a little more.

It was dusk by the time he beached the boat. Jason tossed the sack across his back, securing it tightly, and he stepped onto the rocky shore with a sense of awareness that could only be from the fact that he wasn't exactly sure what he was getting himself into. Jason pulled his broken hood over his head, and he walked the beach openly, waiting, waiting, praying…

They came fast, and they came hard. A flurry of dancing shapes, coming at him from all angles. And yet, Jason knew what he was doing. He knew his goal, and like fuck he was letting it get toyed with. So he ducked, parried, and ran like a bat out of hell. Yeah, strategy, whatever. The beach wasn't the greatest place for an all out battle anyway, like, he needed some higher ground, maybe a few trees he could disappear into…

The ground felt uneven as he leapt onto a ridge, his gloved fingers catching a crag in the rock, and his feet found traction against the jagged surface. He scaled it, ill at ease, his body moving deliberately, but precariously. He had no idea if what he was doing was correct, and one faulty move could be the end of him. It scared him, he had to admit, but he pretended it didn't. He was Jason Todd. He had to remember that, remember who he was, what Bruce had taught him— and what Dick had taught him, and Tim too. Jason knew he was an imbalanced result of painful lessons and haunting mistakes. But at least he knew who he was now.

Jason Todd knew some things. He knew how to fight— but he also knew how to flee, which was what was keeping him alive right now. He wasn't overtly concerned about pride, so seriously, running was his best bet. Time and time again whenever Jason confronted his fears, he was blown backwards by the resulting backlash. So this time, he ran. When his fear came to him, then he would face it. But only then. He was done with this bullshit, and he was ready for answers, but being patient for once would do him some good. He hoped.

The chase continued, and Jason tossed a grenade behind him, his feet clapping against the ground. He wasn't trying to be stealthy, he was trying to be swift. He wanted to be known. He just didn't want to be caught. Not quite yet. So there was a long continuation of this rush, running and climbing, using the face of this isle as his own little playground. Jason pushed all thoughts of Tim Drake from his mind, if only to preserve his own hide. Later, when he was forced to sit still, the guilt and uncertainties would come flooding back.

After about half an hour Jason began taking down some of his pursuers. One by one, he left a trail of unconscious bodies, and he kept at it, dodging and jumping and running. It was almost fun. Like a game he and Dick used to play, just a training exercise. A game for children_. If only, if only, if only_… Truth be told, Jason was numb all over. He didn't know what that meant. _I don't know anything. I've been pretending my whole life, and now I'm stuck because I can't pretend anymore._

When Jason was finally pinned down, he didn't fight. He merely twisted his head, one eye visible beneath his cracked helm, and it glittered in the darkness. "Took you long enough," Jason taunted, feeling the point of a dagger against his neck. "I have a meeting. I'm sure if you call your boss he can give you the okay." Jason didn't so much as wince as the dagger drew blood. "Jason Todd. Ring a bell? Might wanna consult someone."

As Jason had suspected him to, his assailant checked with the big man before finishing Jason off. And, as Jason once again expected, a no kill order was given. Jason was pulled roughly to his feet and prodded with the butt of a spear, and he stumbled forward, scoffing as his wrists were bound. He'd gone through enough trouble getting here. Like hell he was gonna try to escape.

The walk was short. The wait was long. He was brought into a large room, and Jason felt like he was sitting for a doctor's appointment or something, except with an armed guard of assassins. _Just another day in the life of Jason Peter Todd_, Jason thought, closing his eyes. The dim lights in the private study were giving him a headache. _Just another shitty, shitty day._

"Stand up for the Great One," ordered one of the assassins. Jason cracked his visible eye open, and he laughed.

"I can't keep my cool," he cooed, jumping to his feet. "Golly, you guys sure are intimidating."

The _Great One_ stepped into the room, flanked by the familiar guard, Ubu, and of course, the femme fatale herself. One wave of the hand, and the guards were off Jason in a second, retreating backwards as the three approached him with unreadable expressions. Jason stood, hands bound, physically and mentally exhausted, and you know what? He just didn't care if they decided to kill him or not. He'd known the risk when he decided where to go. But, he was pretty sure they wouldn't. Pretty sure.

"Ra's," Jason greeted smoothly. "I'd complain, you know, about how unfortunate it is that you're _still alive_, but really, it'd just be painfully ironic, so I won't."

Jason saw Talia's eyes flash to her father's face, but Ra's gaze was locked on Jason's. It was… scrutinizing, and unnerving, daunting and sharp. Ra's al Ghul stood like royalty, and his presence was archaic and pressuring. Jason was pinned in place, his cynical words dying on his tongue. He was scared, that was true, but when wasn't Jason scared nowadays?

_I've walked into the lion's den_, Jason thought, heart thundering, one visible eye carefully kept clear of emotional turmoil. _I'm the stupidest guy alive._

Somehow, he just didn't care.

"Your helmet," Ra's said, his voice a husky breath of regality. Seriously, it creeped Jason out. He'd _met_ royalty with less aristocratic vibes to them. "You lay a heavy claim, boy."

"Like coming back from the dead is a big deal around here," Jason said thickly. He had no heart to his humor. He pulled the helm off with a swift flick of his hands, and his hair fell over his eyes in dark, tangled strands. Talia's eyes momentarily went wide, dark and shocked and flashing, before she composed herself like she always did. _You've always been so good at hiding what you're thinking, Talia._

"I see." Ra's al Ghul's brow crinkled slightly, but otherwise, he stood stoic. "Leave us."

The guards left without a word. Only Ubu and Talia remained, which was to be expected. Jason pressed his lips together, letting them go a bloodless white. Ra's stalked forward, moving to the study's ornate oak cabinet, and he pulled three long stemmed wine glasses from its shelves. He beckoned Jason to sit, and after Talia went along first, Jason followed without comment. When in Rome, right?

They sat around an ebony table, the wood glistening against candlelight. Ubu manned the door, and Jason felt just about as awkward as a fourteen year old in the home of his least favorite great uncle, or something. Jason took the glass of wine, but kept his lips far from the brim. They all stared at each other, and it was a growing discomfort.

Talia was the one to clear her throat and cut to it. "We were informed of your… demise."

"Yeah," Jason said vacantly. He was tempting to drink the wine now. "That happened."

"We're well aware," Ra's sighed. Jason watched them, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his glass.

"Aw, did it upset you two?" Jason rolled his eyes, and took a swig of the wine. Poisoned or not, he didn't care. He wanted a buzz. "Yeah, I'd be relieved too."

"Actually, it was a rather illuminating experience for us all, I'd say." Ra's was icy in demeanor, but his eyes glowed like firelight.

Talia's dark, clever eyes were cast down to her wine. "It almost destroyed him," she said. Her voice was its usual sultry tone, brisk and unyielding to emotions. _No wonder she and Bruce are… whatever the fuck they are. They're both emotionally constipated._ "Though, obviously, he calmed long enough to see what he'd become. Robin has his ways, doesn't he?"

Jason smiled. It was genuine, for the first time in weeks. "Okay, I'll admit, he's good." _He was, anyway, before I screwed things up._ "I didn't come here to talk about him though."

"And why did you come here, Jason?" Talia asked, sipping at her own wine, smiling back wryly.

Jason drained his wine glass, barely tasting the thick, rich taste of the red. He set the glass down on the table, and he looked between the al Ghuls carefully. Talia was a dark beauty, high cheekbones and bold eyes and tight smiles. Ra's was similar, only he did not smile, and he was not bold. When making this decision, Jason had gone through the facts. One, he had nowhere to go. Two, he wanted answers. Three…

"I want to know," Jason said slowly, leaning back in his chair, "_exactly _why I'm alive again. And who better to ask but Ra's al Ghul?"

* * *

It was a constant struggle, trying to keep himself at bay. His mind played him, over and over and over again, and Tim found it hard to separate reality from trickery. The worst thing was, it was funny. He thought it was funny. And sometimes he caught himself laughing at nothing, when he was alone, in the dark, and there was someone else there laughing with him, something else, a monster cackling in the corner where Tim's vision couldn't catch— under the bed, in the closet, crawling across the ceiling, a grin red and terrible and broad and glistening in the darkness.

But it wasn't true. None of it was true.

Weeks passed. Weeks, and Tim still couldn't bear to be alone in his own room. He felt something else there, someone else, and he didn't want to think about it, but there was that constant breathing against Tim's neck, a laugh scratching at the edge of the heaving breaths, and _oh god_, it just wouldn't go away! Tim tried drowning the laughter with music, but it only grew louder, more erratic, and sometimes it would stop, just so sudden and out of nowhere, and Tim would be so scared to turn around, because what if he was standing there?

Tim knew he wasn't though. He _knew_ it. It was just hard to grasp.

"I'm okay," Tim told himself, pulling his star lamp closer to him. Dawn was creeping at his window, spilling pools of blue light against Tim's dark pit of a floor. The stars whirred breathing life and light and comfort. Tim scrawled sweet words of nothing onto paper, scribbling at a pace that cramped up his hand, but he went on and on and on anyway, keeping his mind on the move, never letting it halt, because if it did—

It was all gibberish. Theorems and encryptions and quotes all jumbled up, a code that only he knew, a journal of pleas that only he could answer. And when he reached the end of a page, he balled up the paper and tossed it in a bin. Tim Drake was clever. Oh, he knew it. He knew, he knew, he fucking _knew_— but that was his curse, knowing so much, and yet not knowing what to do with all this_ knowledge_. It was too much to bear, and sure, sure Tim knew, but he felt like he was a bomb, and all this information spinning round and round and round and round and round in his head? It was volatile and vicious and vile, and he was choking on it all like poison fumes. Soon, soon, soon it was all going to collapse on top of him, and when it happened— Tim was trying, he was, he was, but it was too hard to sort it all out, so he had to keep going, he had to—

"Shut up!" Tim gasped, throwing his pen down and pushing himself off the desk. His chair went flying, sliding across the wooden floor and spinning, its wheels screeching against the floor, and Tim's weight counteracted with its spiral, forcing it to tip. Tim spilled across the floor, falling into pools of morning rays and artificial stars. He curled into its warmth, his mind snapping off for a moment, and all that information was gone, blink, _off_, like a light switch, all gone, _gone_. Tim groaned, shuddering against the ghostly touch of something lurking in the corner, long fingers gliding across his back, grazing bumpy, half-healed scars. "Shut up."

"Oooh?" the monster breathed. "I thought you wanted this!"

"No." Tim gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to see. He was scared of what he'd see. "I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to come home. I never thought I'd—"

"End up like _me_?" A pure, manic laugh split through the morning tranquility, smashing it to pieces, and the shards imbedded themselves in Tim's heart, digging and twisting. He bled enough to force his heart to sink, sink so low so fast that he jolted upright, scrambling across the floor to his bed, his breath catching in his throat as he shook his head.

"I'm not like you," Tim gasped, crawling onto his bed. He flung his blanket over his head, heaving as tears stung his eyes, and he bit his lower lip to force them back. "I'm nothing like you…"

The sensation of someone touching him made him want to scream. He threw back his blanket, the touch callus and digging, and Tim fled the room in a flurry of gasps and prayers and unshed tears. He bumped against walls, his scarred arms pulling up against his chest as he worked to calm himself. He stumbled, half blind from nausea, into the bathroom, and he barely had time to nudge the door closed with his foot before he collapsed over the sink, his back arching as the contents of his stomach rose up and released itself from his mouth.

It tasted like nothing. Tim threw up everything he ate. He didn't _mean_ to, he just… it was hard to keep it down. Tim knew too much. It haunted him. And, like a ghost, it just kept coming back. There was no cure for what Tim Drake had. There was no way out of this, no logical—

"No," Tim choked, spittle running down his chin. He felt hot and unnatural, his body ready to repel the evil that had inhabited it briefly. He flicked the faucet on, listening the to water rush and sputter, and he cupped it in quivering fingers, splashing it against his sweaty face. He coughed, sinking to his knees. "No, not that. There's another way."

There had to be.

Minutes ticked by, and Tim listened to his thundering heartbeat, feeling exhaustion set in as he pressed his sweaty forehead to the sink, shuddering at the wave of coolness that washed over him. It was hard. Tim was scared all the time, and he had no idea how to stop being scared, and that was horrible. It was weak, and stupid, and he felt like a child, but he just couldn't stop. He didn't like being alone, but he didn't want to have to run to Dick with nightmares. He'd never done that before, not to Dick, not to Bruce, and Tim wasn't going to start now. He was almost fifteen. He had to deal with these things on his own.

It was silly, and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. He wondered if this was what Jason had felt like. The thought of Jason sent a pang through Tim's heart, and he shook his head, burying his face in his hands. He didn't want to think about Jason. Tim didn't want to think about what he'd almost done. _No wonder he ran away_, Tim thought bitterly, shaking as a result of stifled sobs_. I'm_ _scared of me too._

Tim's head snapped up as the door creaked open slowly. Dick's face appeared, peeking into the bathroom with a lazy smile. Tim struggled to his feet, lips parting in shock. "I'm fine," Tim lied, his voice trembling weakly. He bit his lip, and he shook his head fast to try and clear it. It was too jumbled, though, too much inside it all clustered together in a convoluted mess of information. "I'm… I'm fine. Really."

Dick's smile stayed, but it looked a little sadder as he opened the door a little wider. "Can I come in?" he asked tentatively. Tim stared for a moment, gripping the sink with white knuckles, before he nodded. He was still nodding by the time Dick reached over Tim's shoulder to turn the faucet off.

"I'm fine," Tim repeated, eyes cast toward his bare feet. He wiggled his toes, feeling the damp tile beneath his feet. The water had overflowed from the sink, and he hadn't noticed. He quickly snatched a towel from a ring above the sink, dropping to his knees to mop up the mess. "Sorry, I— I just got distracted. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dick said, kneeling across from Tim. He saw there was a glass of water in his hand, and Tim was suddenly acutely aware of how _raw_ his throat felt, scathed and burning from the retching. Apparently he'd been staring for a bit too long, because Dick offered the water very gently, nudging Tim's shoulder. Tim took the water, dropping his cloth and sighing.

He took slow sips at first, relishing in the cool liquid at first. Then he began to gulp greedily, feeling the icy water splash against his scratched up throat, and it was a tingling relief. "Whoa, there!" Dick gasped, pressing a hand gingerly against Tim's shoulder. "Careful you don't choke."

"I'm fine," Tim repeated with a rasp, setting aside the glass. "Thank you."

"No problem." The older boy shrugged, quickly releasing Tim's shoulder. He was always very careful to ration his physical contact with Tim. And Tim appreciated it with all his heart, but… but sometimes, no matter how uncomfortable he was, he just sort of wished that Dick would hug him. It would make Tim feel less… fragile. But at the same time, he had to be grateful. Dick was very aware of how uneasy Tim was now when being touched. That was natural, after being tortured. Tim knew that.

"I'm okay, you know," Tim sighed, frowning up at Dick. "You don't have to stay with me."

"I want to."

Tim sighed, and he stared at the pale scars running along his arms. They wouldn't be fading any time soon, which made wearing short sleeves out tedious. Whenever Tim decided to go outside. Which, he knew, needed to be soon. Like, maybe tomorrow soon. He wasn't comfortable leaving the house, but he had to. He knew he had to. He _knew_ it, because this wasn't healthy, and he had to go. He had to go back to school, go back to living.

"I'm going to school tomorrow," Tim said slowly. Dick looked at him, his big blue eyes startled.

"Are you sure?" Dick asked. He reached forward, his hand hovering, but never making contact. Tim nodded vacantly.

"I've missed too much," he murmured. He closed his eyes, and he breathed in the scent of the bathroom, soap and dust and sick. "They're going to fail me."

Dick cracked a smile. "No they won't," he said.

"Well," Tim said, taking a deep breath. "Well then they'll make me repeat the year. I've missed too much, way too much— I still need to catch up on everything, and—"

"Hey," Dick gasped, shaking his head. "Hey, no, calm down. Don't worry about it, you've been excused from school. Doctor's orders." Dick winked, but it didn't make Tim feel any better. "Besides, you've had all your homework done for like, a week."

"I still have tests to make up," Tim murmured. "Projects. I just… I've got to go back."

"You are the only teenager I know who actually wants to go to school for _school_," Dick laughed. "God, the only reason I ever felt bad for missing school was because it was the only time I got to talk to Barbara— oh, you know, before the whole Batgirl thing."

"I'm fine," Tim lied, looking up at Dick with wide eyes. "And I need to go back. I need to— to do something. Something normal. Something me."

"Okay, Tim," Dick said softly, a wan smile gracing his lips. "I'll call the school later to tell them, okay?"

"Make sure they have—" Tim choked on his words. _Make sure they have sedatives_.

Dick stared at Tim intently. "What?" he asked, leaning forward. "What is it?"

"Painkillers," Tim blurted. "Make sure they have painkillers." _Close enough_.

"Oh," Dick said. He studied Tim's face, and it was obvious from the way his eyes drooped that Dick knew exactly what Tim meant. "Don't worry about that. Alfred has half the medicine cabinet prepared for this already, I guarantee it."

"Good." _I'll probably need it. _"I… Thank you. Dick, thank you. So much. For everything."

Dick smiled, and he reached out, mussing Tim's short hair between his fingers. Tim smiled too, leaning into Dick's touch contentedly. It was nice, knowing that Dick cared, and it made Tim feel better just by having him close. It was like something warm had lit up inside Tim's chest, and it burned and glowed and spread out, gentle touches and soothing strokes. It made him smile. It made him _happy_.

_He's just pretending_, a shrill voice breathed in Tim's ear, tickling his neck. _He's only just pretending to love you, and you know that, because how could anyone ever_—?

Tim jerked back. Fingers had him by the shoulders, squeezing and digging, and he stared up at Dick, eyes wide and blinking profusely. The bathroom was twisting, warping, fading into a dim pit that smelled of decay and defecation and dirt and dust and death. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his ears ringing as the echo of laughter chimed and tittered.

"Tim? Tim, look at me… Tim? Tim, are you—?"

"I'm _fine_," Tim snapped, his eyes flashing open. Dick's expression flickered, from worried to hurt to calm. His facial muscles all relaxed, schooled to perfection, to the point where there was nearly nothing that could give a hint of what he was thinking. He was good at this game of steel face and false smiles. Dick Grayson was good at _everything_, and all Tim was good for was disappointment and pain. "S-sorry, I didn't… I mean, I really am okay, Dick. Honest."

"I know you didn't mean it," Dick said, his voice level and tender. He was so good at being the crutch, the one to lean on, Tim wondered who he went to with his problems. It seemed to Tim Drake that Dick was something above human, taking on all the pain of others, and leaving little time to bear his own. "Dinah still wants to talk to you."

Tim looked at his hands, lips twitching at the thought of more therapy. "I don't want to see her," Tim said firmly. He didn't look up.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, and I'm not forcing you—"

"Yes you are!" Tim's eyes flashed toward Dick's face dangerously. Anger spiked through him like a thin knife— _skisch-skisch-skisch_— peeling at layers off his patience. "I don't want to talk to Black Canary about anything. I don't want to talk about anything. I just want it to go away, okay?"

"I know, Tim," Dick said quietly. His eyes were cast downward now, and Tim was the higher power, the dominant force, and he was angry and erratic and impulsive— a laugh was caught somewhere in is throat, beneath words of hate and spite and guilt. "I know. But keeping it bottled up? It won't help you, and I— I'm scared that…"

"That what?" Tim watched Dick with narrowed, empty eyes, and he rose with a weight to his body. He was sad and he was bitter and he was exhausted with himself and everything. "That I'll turn out like him? That I'll be a monster too?"

_You are_, the voice giggled, kissing his ear. A shudder ran icy down his spine, where ghosts of fingertips pressed and dug and tore. _It's already too late. You already are me. See? See how vulnerable he is? You could splice him up real good right here, right now, see? See!_

Tim felt sick.

"No!" Dick gasped, jumping to his feet, reaching out. He looked startled, and his body curled in defense. "No, that's not it at all! Is that… is that what you think? That you're… becoming like—"

Tim picked up his glass and spun away. "Forget it," Tim breathed, his heart pounding in his head, thumping like a drum, a hammer, pounding and ceaseless. "Please, please just forget I ever said anything."

Tim ventured downstairs to the kitchen, which was alight with yellow morning rays, filling the room with splashes of spring sunshine. Alfred was there, appearing to be working on breakfast, but the moment he saw Tim it became apparent he was already done. He took Tim's glass, and after setting it down Tim took his hand and allowed him to lead him down to the Batcave. That was where the heavy-duty medical supplies was.

Tim hopped up on the examination table, stripping his cottony tee shirt off his chest. The bandages on his back pulled taut, and he winced as the still healing skin pulled painfully. The burns were all layers of tight new skin, and as Alfred pulled the soiled bandage back, Tim wrinkled his nose.

"It's healing quite nicely," Alfred said, as he always did. Tim wasn't sure if he was lying or just telling Tim what he wanted to hear. "The scarring will definitely be minimal. If I had been able to get to it sooner…"

"It's not your fault," Tim sighed. He chewed on his lip as Alfred rubbed a sweet smelling ointment he had concocted in a pestle over the healing burn. Tim wasn't allowed to apply the ointment himself anymore, because the last time he had it ended with him scratching himself bloody. Burns were _itchy_. "It's no one's fault. Just bad circumstances."

"Perhaps," Alfred said, his old hands moving gingerly, careful not to cause Tim any sort of discomfort. It only made him all the sadder. "No one of us can truly take the blame, no, but even so…" Alfred looked up at Tim with heavy eyes and a sad smile. "We all blame ourselves, Master Tim."

"You shouldn't," Tim blurted. Alfred smiled on, shaking his head as he pressed a clean bandage to the burn. "Why should you? It's my fa—"

"Ah!" Alfred straightened, extending a finger at Tim to silence him. It worked, and Tim was startled into quieting. "There. You were just about to blame yourself, weren't you?"

Tim felt his face heat up in embarrassment, and he pressed his lips together, shaking his head quickly. "N-no, I…" Tim sunk into himself, his body going limp. "But… it is. My fault. I mean, it's my own stupid fault, and I can't— I can't blame anyone else but myself for it."

"It's no one's fault," Alfred reminded with a genuinely bright smile. "Just bad circumstances, isn't that right, sir?"

Tim swallowed thickly. "Yeah," he said. His throat felt dry and raw and scratchy. "Yeah. Bad circumstances."

After that Alfred moved on to Tim's back, changing the bandage and checking the stitches. Alfred's hands were soft, and quick, and gentle. Wizened, maybe, but Alfred was a comfort. A needed comfort. When Alfred was there, Tim didn't see something in the corner, or feel things crawling over his skin. He felt safer, better, lighter by far.

But Alfred had to leave. Tim couldn't bring himself to ask him to stay, so he watched Alfred go back upstairs after cleaning up the old bandages. Tim pulled his shirt back on, standing numbly in the middle of the cave with a heavy heart and a heavy head and heavy eyelids. He was tired. So, so, so tired. Maybe going to school wasn't the best idea, not yet.

_No, I have to go_. Tim sat down in Bruce's chair, pulling his knees up and resting his chin there. _I can't lock myself up forever. I want my life back._ If only things were so simple as to _want._ No, Tim would force himself to school, it was true, but he wasn't sure how well it would go. Horrible, probably, but Tim Drake would endure. _Whatever it takes…_

He tried to watch the video again. He couldn't get through the first forty seconds.

"_Bruce_," Jason said the camera, his youthful face appearing younger and younger what with the pure fear gleaming in his eyes. "_I… uh, I just wanted to make sure… just in case… that I get to say goodbye this time. So… I guess if you're seeing this_…"

Jason made a face at the camera, his nose crinkling as he barked a mirthless laugh. "_Oh, god, I'm so stupid. But I gotta make this fast. Got a little brother to save_." He smiled at the camera, and Tim paused the video, hugging his knees and staring.

The smile was warm, a ghost of something that had once been resplendent. But it still shone, like the echo of light after it fades. He looked happy. He looked content. Cloudy eyes glowed, and Tim knew this was Jason Todd, the boy who had burrowed himself so deep inside the hearts of those around Tim, that no one could even utter his name after his death. This was Jason, Robin, the child that wasn't quite as dead as Tim had thought. And Tim stared. He stared, and stared, and he felt something creeping behind him, a laugh muffled by the distant sound of banter and laughter and _timmy, birdy, little bird_—

"Why did you have to leave now?" Tim whispered to the ghost on the screen. "I was always there when you needed me. Why did you leave right when I needed you?"

Jason Todd was the only one who could possibly understand. He was the only one who had the same anxiety, fear of sleep and food and touch. Tim understood now, and it felt awful. He hated knowing. He longed for the days where he'd been ignorant of how destructive the Joker made a person. Tim could no longer sort himself from the jumble inside his head. Was he Tim Drake? Was he Robin? Was he… some_thing_… else?

Tim went back to his room after that. He felt sick and tired, and there was too much light, and he knew he probably should get some sleep before going back to school. Also, food. He needed to eat. But the though of it turned his stomach, and he collapsed on his bed with a deep breath, curling into the rays of morning sun streaming through his window.

He was just about nodding off when his phone went off. He jumped, a slight shriek leaving his lips as he looked around wildly, heart pounding, breath heavy_. No, no one's here, no one's here_. It was a lie, though, a horrible lie, because there was something standing in the corner, and Tim couldn't bear to look it in the eye.

He picked up his phone, anxious at the contents of whatever message awaited him. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He just wanted to get to sleep, and to forget. Forgetting would be good. God, what he wouldn't give to forget. But then, he read it, and for a moment he sat on his bed, half swaddled in blankets, and he blinked slowly.

_turn on the news_

It was from _Arsenal_ of all people. Tim hadn't even known Arsenal had his number. Ten different questions flew through Tim's head all at once, but he settled on simply turning on his television and nestling inside his blankets. The news was bleak, and Tim hated it nowadays. When he did decide to watch television, he usually chose something campy enough to make him content, but witty enough for him to be interested. Tim had trouble concentrating on one thing now, though. He had to keep moving, keep working at different things, finish this, finish that, never ever stop.

"— _no word on who the assailant was. The Joker's condition is currently stable, but he will remain hospitalized for his injuries indefinitely. Arkham Asylum officials assure us that the breach in security measures are being dealt with at this time, and there will not be another break in_—"

Tim turned off the television and sat in silence for a few minutes. His eyes were wide, and he sorted it out quickly enough. He just couldn't move. Why? Why on earth…? But then, Tim realized he still had to respond to Arsenal. He scooped up his phone, running his fingers through his hair as he dialed fast.

He answered almost immediately.

"_So you _are_ alive_," Arsenal drawled. "_I almost thought Nightwing was lying about saving you_."

Tim sat, cross-legged on his bed, and he took deep breaths to keep himself calm. _There's nothing there, Tim_, he reminded himself. _Nothing_. "Why?" Tim breathed, pushing his blankets back and stumbling from his bed.

"_Because no one has seen or heard you in a month_?"

"No," Tim said, biting his lip. He saw his reflection in his mirror, and he saw a smile where there was none, and a lean figure looming behind him. Tim turned the opposite way, bowing his head. "No, I mean, why'd you do it?"

There was silence. It rung in Tim's ear, and he took a deep breath again, deep slow breaths. _Nothing there_. Then, after a few anxious seconds of quiet, Roy Harper spoke.

"_Because you can't_," he said in a low voice. "_Because he deserved it. Because people like us have got to stick togethe_r."

Tim stared out his window, and he felt the sun dance across his face, warm and licking up the tears stinging his eyes. "People like us?" Tim repeated thinly. _Broken_, he thought.

"_Survivors_," Roy said. And just like that, Tim felt a little better. He turned toward the mirror, and relief washed over him when he saw his reflection, gaunt and wild eyed and tremulous— but no_thing_ else in sight. And he smiled.

"Thank you," Tim said. His voice sounded dead, but in his heart he was very much alive. _Whatever it takes_. "I… I'm sorry. For the way I treated you before."

"_What?" _Roy sounded incredulous, and he scoffed_. "Whatever it was, I probably deserved it. I usually do, you know, for the most part._"

"No, it was wrong. I was wrong. Thank you, Roy."

Roy laughed, and Tim smiled. "_Whatever. Just... feel better, I guess. Then you can thank me personally_."

Tim nodded, but it was vacant and uncertain. "Yeah," he said. "Right." He took a deep breath, his mind murmuring. "Right."

Sleep came to him sometime after. It was sweet, and it was calm, and his dreams were filled with the fluid movements of birds, and how they fly without fear of falling because they were _made_ for it.

Tim dreamed he was on top of a tower, and then he dreamed that he was not made to fly.

* * *

The movements were all fluid. Flowing and natural, swift and lithe, yet still unyielding. The faults were minimal. In comparison, Jason felt as though he was languid and unrefined. But that was a secret he kept locked up tight. He let himself believe that he was better, because that was what he wanted them to believe. If he kept up the appearance of perfection he wouldn't have to deal with the inevitable crash of his reality. In truth, he had trouble maintaining this image.

Jason had been given a bed and a change of clothes. The room was small and furnished minimally. A bed. A hook for clothes. A stool beside the bed that served as a nightstand of sorts, with a candle and matches. Jason lit the candle every night, and he let it burn as he laid in the grip of a lumpy mattress, which was nothing like the feathery light touch of his bed back home. He watched fingers of wax drip down the candle's face, and he counted them, building in clumps. One for every stupid mistake.

At night he thought of Tim. He thought of how terrified Tim's eyes had been, eyes that had always been so big and wide and naïve, eyes of a kid who still believed in the world. Jason had always been jealous of Tim. He wanted that innocence back. He wanted Robin back, some part of him. Regret always bubbled and festered inside him then, and he had to press his face into his pillow to muffle his crying. _I never wanted him to get hurt. I never wanted anything to happen to him._

Talia was the one to administer the tests to him, thank god. He was comfortable with her the most out of everyone in Ra's al Ghul's service. Probably because he knew she wouldn't hurt him. Or, well, she was least likely to turn him into a science experiment. One thing Jason knew about Talia al Ghul? She really did love Bruce Wayne. And one thing Jason knew about Bruce Wayne? He really did love his kids. _He does_, Jason told himself again and again. _He does care_.

She took some blood the first time they did a daily check up, but since then it was mostly just a test of whether or not he was physically stable. It had occurred to Jason before that his predicament could be… temporary. He knew it had occurred to Bruce too. He tried to imagine… decomposing. His skin going taut, bloating up and then withering. Talia checked his heartbeats, and she checked his eyes, and she questioned him on every single scar that marred his body.

"And those?" she'd asked, pointing to the almost T that lined his abdomen. Jason pressed his fingers to the discolored, raised flesh of his most prominent scar. "Post Mortem, I assume. Do you have any other scars like it?"

"I…" Jason had felt uncomfortable speaking of it. He liked to pretend the scar wasn't there. "I don't know."

Talia had sighed and went on to ask him about something else. Talia wasn't bad company. She just liked to avoid getting attached. Jason understood that. He had to accept it. Hell, Jason didn't want Talia to get all warm and fuzzy. That'd be fucking weird. Like a snake growing fur and losing its fangs. It just wasn't likely, and it was unnatural. Talia al Ghul was as vicious as she was lovely. And boy, was she lovely.

Jason knew he'd been there for about a week. Maybe a little longer. It was hard to tell, really, there was no sun, and sometimes days dragged on, or were cut short. Jason spent his days and nights training, when not with Talia. He was thankful. He figured Ra's would find the answer to Jason's revival, and when he did… well, Jason would find out one way or another.

He fought the assassins with a cheeriness to him he thought he'd lost. He wasn't sure if any of them knew who he was, but he wouldn't be surprised if they did. His fighting style probably gave it away. His movements echoed Bruce's, steadfast but nimble. He was faster than them, but also rougher around the edges. He had to rely on dodging until he found a vantage point and went with all his force.

Today was no different. He spun across the floor, moving faster than the assassin's blade, and he jumped up, kicking him across the back. When he stumbled, Jason knew he had him, and he attacked with more vigor. He got his knees to buckle by applying pressure to the back of them, and then he had him by the arm, twisting it back until the sword slipped through his fingers. It fell to the floor with a soft clatter, and Jason forced the assassin to his knees.

"Okay, so that's ten to seven, right?" Jason asked no one. He sucked in a breath. Tim was harder to beat than this. He released the assassin and twirled around, smirking proudly. "Skeddadle, now. I've got an appointment to attend to."

The assassin shuffled heavily to his feet, and Jason saw his glare, but he could only wink in response. The training room was filled with novices and full-blown assassins alike. Jason didn't know exactly what he expected to learn. To kill? God, he wished it was that easy. But the truth was, he couldn't find it in himself to even breach the topic. All he had to do was walk up to Talia and say, _"Teach me how to kill without feeling a thing."_ But he just couldn't bring himself to it.

"You're supposed to kill him," called a high-pitched voice. It carried from above, and Jason paused, turning back to peer up at a bar used for pull-ups.

There was a boy there, perched upon the metal bar with his legs up, and his chin tucked to his chest. He'd been watching the entire time, Jason realized, observing the trainees with vigilant eyes and careful silence. Jason hadn't seen him there. In fact, Jason had never seen him before at all. He was tiny as far as Jason could tell, probably the tiniest trainee of them all if he had to guess. The thought made Jason a little sad. The boy made Jason sad to look at. No child deserved this fate.

"What?" Jason asked, blinking up at the child. The boy's skin was dark, toned from the sun, perhaps, or maybe it was natural. "Why would I do that?"

The boy wrinkled his nose. "What do you mean?" the boy scoffed. His eyes flashed to the failed assassin, and he made an exasperated noise. "Oh, please. There's no room for failure here, is there? No. You're supposed to kill him."

Jason gave the boy a disgusted glance, and he turned away, shaking his head. The boy shouted after him, and before Jason knew it he was laying on his back, rolling out of the way of a katana. "Jesus fucking Christ!" Jason spat, flipping to his feet. "What? You wanna fight, kid?"

"I'm not a kid," the boy said, his chin raised high. He was round faced and scrawny. He looked like a _baby_, just a little kid with a playsword. But Jason knew better. "And yes. I do."

"Well," Jason said, smiling thinly. "That's nice. But I'll have to take a raincheck. I've got somewhere I gotta—"

The sword cut through Jason's arm like it was butter, and the skin tore easily, sending trails of blood running thickly down the pale skin of his forearm. Jason jerked back, clamping his hand over the open wound to staunch the bleeding. The boy was _fast_, Jason would give him that! Fast, and determined. There was a fire that glowed inside the boy's keen gaze, a blaze that seemed to be fueled by Jason. The way the kid watched Jason move, it was as if he was soaking up every little thing he did. It was unnerving, but also fascinating.

"Hey!" Jason frowned, dropping his bloody hand to his side. "If you wanna spar, put the sword away. I'm so sick of looking at those things."

"No. I will not." The boy steadied his stance, and he looked almost lethal. Jason knew he probably was. "Perhaps you should acquire one."

"I'm not really a sword person." Jason shrugged. The truth was, he was scared of hurting the boy. He was so tiny, it would haunt Jason if anything happened to him by his hand.

The boy made another noise of exasperation. "So be it," said the boy. And then he attacked.

Jason moved as he'd been taught to move. Fast, certain, keeping the balance between himself and his enemy— but there was no balance. His opponent was a child, smaller than Jason by at least a half, and the sword was long and sharp. Jason was good, but he was used to using his smaller stature to his advantage. But since being resurrected, Jason had grown several inches and lost a lot of weight and muscle, leaving him gangly and uncomfortable in his own skin. But this boy was more confident than any child had a right to be, and he struck with precision, nicking Jason's leg as he flipped back.

"Jesus," Jason repeated. He barked a laugh, landing on his feet and making a show of it, sliding onto his hands and blinking at the trail of blood he was leaving on the training mats. He kept his eye on the way the boy moved as he attacked again, not as fluid as Jason, of course, but the strength in which he carried himself was enough. Jason pushed off the ground, curling over the boy's head and kicking his back. Jason landing into a roll, spinning into a crouch. "You're pretty good, kid!"

The boy's brow furrowed as he lunged again. "Tt!" But Jason was ready this time, shaking off the dimming pain of his wounds. He slipped aside, listening to the blade whistle past his ear, and he kicked the boy again. His foot landed square in the child's chest, sending him stumbling back. Jason wasn't too surprised, because he had to pull his punches here. He just couldn't use full force on a kid so small.

He moved again, and again, but Jason kept dodging, using his own flash strikes, dancing around the blade and _laughing_. It was a laugh he'd used during his early days as Robin. Something he'd used to mimic Dick. He'd dropped it after a little while, after finding his own identity as Robin, but it was still a fun, taunting sound. And the kid hated it! The way his face contorted, a snarl curling on his lips.

"Stop," the boy spat, jumping back and dodging one of Jason's blows. He kicked up, and Jason's head snapped back, the thin blade only nearly missing his cheek. Jason winced as the boy kicked off his chest, and the sword caught him once again, slicing a thin cut into his side.

"You first," Jason scoffed, jumping away, his arm bright red as he blocked a strike to his stomach.

"Enough!" a sharp, clear voice bellowed. Jason watched the boy's entire body go rigid. He pulled back, his eyes going wide and flashing to the doorway. Then his expression went utterly blank.

Jason spun, blinking as Talia stepped between them, her long chestnut hair falling across her shoulders in thick, glossy curls. She wasn't a very tall woman, and in fact, she was actually quite tiny. She was Jason's height, perhaps a few centimeters taller, with eyes like coals and just as hard. She stood with her lips drawn back, eyes flashing between Jason and the boy, and she looked as if she wanted to bark something at them, but she was restraining herself. In the end she seemed to swallow her words, and after she gave the boy one very long, withering look, she turned on her heel and moved from the room.

"Jason, with me," she called, her voice back to its low, smooth as honey tone. Whatever she had been angry about, she either did not care now, or she pretended not to care. Talia was so hard to read, it made Jason wonder. Wasn't she sad? Her life wasn't ideal— in fact, Jason saw someone very lonely behind the façade of poison smiles and harsh stares.

"You were to come to me at five," Talia stated as she walked. Her eyes were set ahead, and she did not spare a single glance behind her to see if Jason was actually following. "I'm impatient, I'll admit to it, but you had no excuse."

"The kid attacked me out of nowhere!" Jason hissed. "How was I supposed to get out of that?"

"Leave," Talia hissed back, her head snapping to the side. "You should not have indulged him!"

"Please," Jason scoffed, glowering at his bloody arm. "I wasn't, okay? He just attacked me. What was I supposed to do, let him shove a fuckin' katana through my spine?"

"I don't care," she said, stopping before a door. "Get in. Now."

"You're awful snappy today, Talia," Jason said, studying the woman with narrowed eyes. She met his gaze with one of pure steel, and she took him by the bloody arm and dragged him inside the room.

_She's hiding something_, Jason realized as she sat him down, cleaning up the wounds the little terror had given him. She was unfocused, and Jason could see that from the way she scrubbed at his arm. She kept stroking at the same place, over and over again, and the skin was turning raw and pink.

"Uh, Talia?" Jason peered at her, waving his good hand in front of her face. She looked at him sharply, and tossed the bloody rag back into a basin full of warm water.

"You'll live," she remarked dryly, snatching a bandage. "Next time you see him, don't provoke him."

"I didn't provoke—!" Jason objected. But she tied the bandage around his arm so tightly, he broke off with a yelp. Jason scowled at her indignantly. _Alfred's always gentle when tying bandages_. He felt a familiar pang, a stab at his heart as the thought of home filled him with a dull throbbing, a hopeless longing. "What's that kid's deal, anyway?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Talia said. She pressed a stick on bandage to his side, and another to his leg, gentler this time.

Jason rolled his eyes as she stood, taking the basin to a sink at the other side of the room. "I mean, like, he's what? Four?" Jason shrugged. "What's his story? Picking up strays?"

Talia said nothing. She washed her hands, her body rather… rigid. _She doesn't like this topic._ "Hey, come on. Secrets don't make friends."

"Jason," Talia said, turning to face him. She flicked her wrist, water droplets springing from her fingertips and into the sink. "I'm not entitled to speak with you about this. He's my charge. That is all you need to know."

"Oh." Jason rocked back in forth in his seat. "Fine. I see how it is."

She had a needle, but needles didn't scare Jason. _They haven't scared me since I was just a little kid_. "Lay down and hold still. This will hurt a bit."

It hurt a lot.

* * *

He was about as disoriented as he expected to be. School was nothing but a hazy blur of white and black, blob-like shapes bobbing back and forth, swaying like leaves in the wind. It made him feel sick, but he kept that to himself. He kept it all to himself. What else could he do? What could he say? _Oh, teacher, I keep seeing a madman standing in the corner, and he's laughing, can you make him stop?_ It sounded like lunacy. It _was _lunacy.

School was sort of overwhelming to the point where he'd gone completely numb about an hour and a half ago. Now he was barely certain if he was in the right room. Was this is class? Did that even matter anymore? All he had to do was get through the day. That's all. Just one day, to prove he could do it. _Grow up, Tim. Just grow the hell up._

"Gym?" Tim blurted at the secretary, who had just looked up his schedule for him. He'd been sent to the office after realizing that no, he was not in fact in the right class. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mr. Drake," said the woman, peering at him from behind long eyelashes. "Do you feel up to it? I can always call—"

"No," Tim said. He straightened, his mind muddled and stark, painful and numb. _Help,_ he wanted to scream. _I think I might have lost my mind!_ "No, no. Don't call anyone. I can do it."

She watched him warily. "If you say so, Mr. Drake," she said slowly, giving him an excuse.

He ran for it.

Tim was doing a dance of courtesies. He had to pretend, pretend, pretend everything felt okay, because if he didn't… then he had to stop lying to himself. And he wasn't ready for that. He wanted to keep pretending until he dropped dead. He wanted to keep pretending until the stars blinked out, and the sun burned itself into collapasing, and the moon crumbled away, and the earth was set ablaze. He wanted to pretend forever, and ever, and then a little more.

_Whatever it takes_, Tim thought, sitting in the locker room with his gym bag in his lap. His scars stood starkly white against the raised skin of his arms._ It takes too much. I don't want to feel like this. I don't want to feel anything. Just make it go away, please, somebody, make it go away, make it_—

"You skipping too?" a small voice said from above. Tim stiffened, his eyes flashing up at the pale boy with ferocity aglow in his eyes. For a moment, the boy's face flickered, a feral grin settling on his lips, eyes like blood and teeth like lemons— but it wasn't real. And Tim knew it.

"No," Tim sighed. "No, I should go out there."

"You've missed like, the entire class," the boy pointed out. "Not much left to do. Besides, missing one class doesn't fail you. Mr. Donner totally lied. All you need is a doctor's note."

_I don't need a doctor's note_, Tim thought glumly. _The only reason I'm here is to prove I can do it_. But he didn't say so. He merely stared at his arms, at the gooseflesh raised beneath the bumpy scars, and he felt awkward and self-conscious beneath the boy's gray gaze.

"I already got dressed," Tim said, tugging at the hem of his Gotham Academy gym shirt. It was larger now. Too baggy against his ribs. Or maybe it was him that had shrunk. He saw his hands shaking, and he swallowed, his breath shallow as he lost himself to his thoughts. "I need to go."

The boy watched with a furrowed brow and a somber gaze. He sat down beside Tim on the bench, and when Tim flinched, his eyes snapping closed, Tim felt the boy scoot a careful distance away. There was a minute or so of steady silence, Tim's uneven breathing echoing in his ears. He rubbing his arms, numb fingers brushing over the bumps of white, jagged scars. White like fire, hot and unforgiving. White like eyes, watching, watching, always watching in the dark. White like a face, floating in the black, in the corner, in his head. Always.

"Tim Drake," said the boy. Tim took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry. Uh, well, I mean, I just know you. You know. The news. Tabloids. That shit."

"Right," Tim said dully.

"Right." The boy was watching him, and Tim could feel his eyes, relentless like— like _his_. Searching, searching, wanting but never giving. "You've been gone for awhile."

"I was sick."

"Yeah," sighed the boy. "Yeah. I get it."

Tim's eyes peeled back, and he looked at the boy with narrowed eyes. "No you don't," Tim said, throat dry. He winced. "I mean… I mean…"

"I've tried hurting myself before," the boy admitted. Tim jumped, his entire body springing in shock.

"W-what?" he choked. The boy smiled, albeit sadly, and he sheepishly ruffled his hair.

"Yeah, well… that was a while ago. I don't do it anymore, because… you know. I figured out shit. Like that I have the best sister ever, and I go to a really great school, and I just… you know, got some clarity. But I do get it." The boy smiled bigger, and this time he reminded Tim of Dick. His hair was cut choppily, as if it was growing out from being sawed off in uneven chunks.

Tim studied the boys face. He knew him from other classes. He was Tim's age, but he was taller and lankier. His hair was a strange color too, dyed faintly grayish. Darker than his eyes by far, and sort of metallic. Tim wondered how he got away with it, but then again, scholarship students were given leeway with the dress code for various reasons.

"Cullen, right?" Tim asked. He pressed his palms to his arms, but not even his hands could cover up all the scars. Cullen Row and his sister, Harper, who was in the grade above them, were both Wayne Scholarship kids. Tim knew Harper by reputation. Something about jumper cables and Batman. Bruce hadn't really elaborated, but she'd been put in Gotham Academy after that, and Cullen followed.

"Yep," Cullen said. He nodded glancing around the locker room. "Heard of me?"

"Yeah."

"My reputation proceeds me," he laughed. Tim managed a small smile. Cullen leaned back, and he looked up at the ceiling. "Please tell me they had the grace to at least call me a pretty faggot."

"What?" Tim stared at the Cullen, his eyebrows knitting together confusedly. He set aside his gym bag, and he shook his head. "Um, I heard of you from Bruce. Because… you know, you're on his scholarship?" The boy's face fell. "What are you talking about?"

Cullen winced. "Ouch." He whistled, and he took a deep breath. "Oh, man, I didn't even think of that. Sorry, I guess I'm paranoid."

"It's okay." Tim shrugged. He looked down at his arms, and he put two and two together. He decided against commenting, though. "I am too."

"Well, if _I_ was Bruce Wayne's kid," Cullen joked, rising to his feet. "Do you get kidnapped a lot?" Tim must have visibly recoiled from the comment, because Cullen swore. "Oh, wow, that was the most insensitive thing I've ever asked. Sorry, man."

"No, it's—"_ I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. _"It's… fine."

"No it's not." Cullen sighed. "I'm really sorry. Um… so…" He looked down at Tim, and it wasn't long before Tim realized what he was trying to ask.

"I don't cut myself," Tim said firmly. "This is…" Tim held up his scarred arms, jagged lines criss-crossing where a knife had carved him up like… _like the screeching little bird he was_. Tim took a deep breath, shaking his head. "This is the result of something unavoidable."

"Is that bandage…?" Cullen looked as if he was trying to quell his curiosity, but it was obvious it wasn't working. And hell, if Tim could get a story straight now, maybe he wouldn't have to hide the scars as much as he'd thought.

"Yeah." Tim swallowed, and he shrugged, hoping to pass it off as nonchalant. "Well, no. This one's a burn." Tim pressed his fingers to his neck where the bandage extended. His uniform collar had covered it up until now. "I got… pretty banged up."

"'Pretty banged up' is getting mugged in an alley. Thrashed around a little." Cullen watched Tim with his eyes full of concern and innocence. "Do you… wanna talk about it, or…?"

"No." Tim shook his head vigorously. "No, no, no. All I want is for this to go away."

"I'm sure it will," Cullen tried to reassure him. "You know. Time. It heals all scars, and shit."

"Not these ones," Tim said softly.

Cullen studied Tim's face, and he looked very sad, his lips parting slightly as if he meant to blow smoke from between them. _Like Jason_. But he opened his mouth wider, and he spoke, "I know it's not… my business at all, but—"

The door to the locker room burst open then, and another boy looked at them with wild eyes. Tim jumped to his feet, his stomach tying into knots of anxiety. The boy took a deep breath, and then he waved his arm, gesturing for both boys to move.

"There's a freaking planet in the sky!"

* * *

The days passed, and Jason went on with his routine. He trained, wondering if they would ever push him to actual assassin training. Part of him wanted it. The thrill-seeking, knowledge thirsting part of him that wanted to _know_, and to be the _best._ But there was another part of him, a meek little boy who screamed no, no, no, _no_! An assassin? Jason wasn't made for that. He was made to fly, and being an assassin would only clip his wings.

Jason was aware that Talia could be saving his blood for something. Jason imagined running into a clone of himself, like Superboy or Red Arrow. Jason didn't care, though. They could clone Jason all they wanted, it wouldn't matter. A clone of him would just be even more of a disappointment. But hey, it would be their problem. Jason just couldn't give a fuck.

Talia kept dodging his questions, which was expected, but annoying. Jason knew that he wasn't exactly welcome, which was what made him uncomfortable. But Jason was used to discomfort by now, so he lived with it. He didn't know what else to do— and though he told himself he could leave whenever he wanted to, he wasn't sure if that was true.

It was late, and Jason was doing his nightly exercises. Pushups first, then balance. His fingers were aching as he stood on the tips of them, steadying his breaths to keep himself from thinking too hard. The worst thing about being here? It was the feeling of complete and utter solitude that clawed at him. He was lonely. He missed Tim, and he missed Dick (as little as he saw him), and he missed Alfred, and he missed Bruce. Shit, he missed Bruce.

_He'll be so angry_, Jason thought, sweat glistening on his brow. _He'll hate me for what happened to Tim. _Jason knew it to be true. Bruce would be so disappointed in Jason for what he'd done, he probably would be able to look at him. No, worse. He'd simply stare. It would be worse that way, the piercing gaze of Batman, full of nothing but unadulterated disgust.

Going back would be a nightmare. Jason couldn't imagine facing Tim again either, who was… was… fuck, Jason didn't even know! He'd left too soon to see if Tim was remotely okay. Jason felt guilty about that. For all Jason knew, Tim was in a straight jacket in Arkham. _Dick wouldn't do that. Dick would never do that to anyone he cares about._

"You're off balance."

Jason jumped, a soft shriek releasing from his lips as a hand smacked him in the back, sending him falling forward. He rolled, his arms shaking, and he slipped, stumbling on his feet and falling onto his ass. "Shit!" he gasped, his eyes falling on the small child standing before him. "How the hell did you get in here?"

The boy lifted his index finger, pointing to the ceiling. Jason's face contorted in confusion, and he glanced upward. There was an air vent hanging open. Jason stared at it for a moment, and he wrinkled his nose. "Demon child," Jason muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

"You're not very good," the boy sniffed. "I mean, I don't understand. Why did he choose you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jason sighed, dusting off his sweatpants. He watched the boy warily, and folded his arms across his chest. "God, how old are you? You're like four, and you act like you're seventy."

The boy's blue eyes narrowed. "I'm six and a half," the boy stated haughtily. His eyes were sort of piercing, too bright beneath his dark brow. He looked almost a normal child when he studied Jason, curiosity glimmering beneath the salient blue depths.

Jason made a show of clapping, smirking at the child. "Six and a half," Jason repeated, chuckling at the glower he received. "Gosh. You said that almost like a normal little kid. Do you even know any other little kids?"

"Why would I?" The boy looked puzzled, and Jason could only stare and pity him.

"You have a sad, depraved childhood, little grandfather," Jason said with a sigh. The boy was visibly irritated by this nickname. "Now get out."

"No."

There was a short silence as Jason studied the child, who stood with nothing short of pride radiating from his stance. His back was straight, and his head was high, and his pursed lips gave him a pouty appearance. His hair was black, sleek and slicked back from his round face. Jason could see the prominence of his cheekbones beneath the roundness of his cheeks, and it was clear that once the boy lost the youthful chubbiness, his features would be precariously sharp.

"No?" Jason asked, folding his arms across his chest. "Okay, kiddo, I'll play. You wanna fight again?"

"Do not call me that," the boy scoffed. He looked up, and he smiled. "Do you want to lose again?" The candlelight flickered against his face, and he looked half a devil with his wicked grin.

"Not particularly, no," Jason said. He actually just didn't feel like fighting. "So, why are you here, then?"

"I wish to..." The boy's grin slid away, and he glared at Jason. "To… talk. About…"

"About…?"

He exhaled sharply, and stood tall, his shoulders squaring. "I wish to know about my father," the boy declared. "You will tell me of him."

"Huh?" Jason blinked down at the boy. He was deadly serious, his eyes hardened and demanding. Blue eyes, cold and calculating, carefully assessing every movement Jason made… "Your… " _Cheekbones… but your eyes_… "Father…?" _Six and a half years… six and a… oh, motherfucker_…"Wait. Shit!"

"My father," repeated the boy, scowling up at Jason indolently. "Batman."

Something inside Jason broke a little. He wasn't sure what it was. Maybe it was his heart. But now that he looked at the boy, he saw it. The eyebrows were the same shape, and the eyes were nearly the same color… Jason thought nearly, because the boy's eyes were darker, just a little bit. His lips were Talia's, full and pink and always on the verge of a pout. His cheekbones were definitely Talia's, and the shape of his eyes, but his nose was like Bruce's. Thin, but still rounded. _The hair too_, Jason thought, staring at the shiny black, slickly styled locks. _I should have seen it sooner_.

"Oh," Jason said, his throat dry. "_Oh_."

"Yes," the boy sighed. "You are not very smart, are you?"

Jason couldn't stop staring. He was small for his age, but there was a boundless amount of potential. Even Jason could see that. He'd almost lost to the kid, after all. He was small, but he was strong too, and _fast_. He was the perfect son for Bruce, quiet and lithe and strong. And Jason was jealous. Looking at the boy, Jason's heart filled with a painful longing. _If only I was Bruce's real son_…

But Bruce didn't know he had a real son. Bruce was standing trial somewhere in space, and Jason was here, with his son. Flesh and blood son. Jason opened his mouth, and he itched to splutter and laugh and shout, but he couldn't. He felt dead on the inside.

"Oh," Jason said again. "Um… okay. What… was your name again?"

"I never said it," the boy reminded.

Jason let out another weak, "Oh."

"But if you must know—"

"Yeah, I _kinda_ must?"

The boy's eyes snapped upward, and his lips curled into a snarl. "It's _Damian._"

"Damian." Saying the name was odd. It felt heavy on Jason's tongue, like a heavy weight. This boy was going to change everything. "Shit. _Shit_."

"Your vocabulary is astounding," Damian said, sounding bored.

Jason could only groan, falling backwards onto his cot-like bed and covering his face with his pillow. "This is so fucked up," he grumbled into the pillow, his voice muffling. "This is…" Jason sat up, his pillow dropping into his lap. "Why didn't Talia say anything?"

Damian shrugged, and Jason tossed his pillow aside, jumping up. "She told me not to speak with you," Damian said slowly. Jason looked at him with wide eyes. "But you are my father's ward, and so… I thought it reason enough to disobey."

Jason had to take a deep breath. It was too much to take in, and he was sort of overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the knowledge of Damian's existence dropped. "You said you wanted to talk about him?" Jason asked, his voice dead.

"Yes." Damian stood before him, eyes sharp and dangerous. "I want to know about him. From someone who is with him consistently."

"Well, that…" Jason paused, and he frowned. "Makes sense. Okay, what do you wanna know?"

Damian stared at him, and he looked almost startled for a moment. "You are giving in?" he asked. "So willingly?"

"I'm tired, okay?" Jason sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I have a lot on my mind, and you know what? I don't really care right now. Caught me at the right time, I guess."

"Oh." Damian looked down, and Jason studied his clothing for a moment. He was wearing a black tunic and pants, with a tight white shroud swathing his shoulders. "I see. Tell me, then."

"Tell you _what_?" Jason asked in exasperation.

"What is he _like_?" Damian shot in the same exasperated tone. "Mother calls him a mighty warrior. Is that true?"

Jason didn't know what to say. _Oh god_, he thought, eyes widening at the child, _I'm going to have to preserve this kid's perfect image of Bruce as Batman_. But then, Jason was not the kind to fluff Bruce's image. No, he would tell it like it was. Ugly truth and all. The kid would be able to take it. And if he couldn't… well, Jason was going to tell the truth. Because Jason wasn't Dick, and he wasn't gonna lie for the sake of the kid's fragile mind, or whatever.

"Well, he's mighty," Jason said slowly. "And a total prick. He's got the social grace of a funeral shroud." When he wasn't obfuscating stupidity as Bruce Wayne, anyway.

"Prick?" Damian asked. Jason's mouth dropped open, and he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. _He's six, what am I supposed to say?_

"Uh… he's a jerk."

"Oh…" Damian glared at the wall, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. It appeared he didn't like not knowing things.

"Never mind." _The concept will be lost on him anyway_. "So, anyway, he's kind of got this big and mighty and dark appearance to him, but under all that he's really just…" _Jaded, serious, brooding_. "A human being."

"Oh." Damian stood for a moment, and then he nodded. He jumped then, his foot catching the bed, and he pushed off. In a moment, he was crawling into the open air vent, peering down with eyes big and owl-like. "Do not tell my mother of this meeting."

He disappeared before Jason could reply. The kid was not a normal six year old, Jason could see that much. Well, aside from being a brat. But hey, he was a well-spoken brat. He was smart. But Jason had no idea what to do. Bruce's _son_! Was he just supposed to pretend he'd never seen anything? Life would be easier that way. But… Bruce had the right to know. And Jason was certain that he didn't know already, because… because Bruce would never let his son be raised by the League of Shadows. Bruce would take in his son, and raise him to be a good person.

Jason knew he'd have to face Bruce now. If only to tell him about Damian. _Will he hate me even more, then?_ Jason didn't know. He didn't plan on whisking Damian off into the night, or anything. The kid could stay with Talia for all Jason cared. But he knew if he went home now and told everyone, Dick would make it his job to contact Talia and work something out.

Jason could barely keep from snapping at Talia the next day when she was checking his vitals. But he did. Oh, boy, did he. He sat like a good little guinea pig, because he had done all of this willingly, so he might as well give in to it. He watched her, her lips and her cheekbones and her eyes. Damian was a strange amalgamation of Bruce and Talia, all rounded where she was sharp, and sharp where Bruce was rounded. He was a curious thing. And Jason sort of just wanted nothing to do with him.

Of course, he had everything to do with Damian al Ghul. As much to do with him as he had to do with Tim Drake, or Dick Grayson.

"So you and Bruce," Jason said conversationally. She stiffened a little, and did not respond otherwise. "You broke up… when? 2009?"

She busied herself, or at least pretended she was busying herself. "Yes, I believe that is right."

"Wow, seven years." Jason gave a short whistle. "Long time, Talia. Ever consider… leaving? Going to Gotham?"

"This is not a matter I wish to discuss," Talia said slowly, turning to face Jason. He could see her dark eyes, and he could see the glint of sadness there. "And none of your business, besides."

"Of course it's my business," Jason said. He stared at her, and he sighed when she gave him a perplexed look. "Bruce is my _dad_, okay? He's the only dad I've ever known, so yeah, I'm kind of interested in his love life." _And you're also kinda the mother of his son. No biggie, Tals. _

"It did not work out," Talia stated firmly. "He wanted me to choose, and I chose. Simple."

"Not so simple," Jason said, leaning forward. He watched the way she moved, looking uncertain as she shifted her body. He pointed to her, an accusation on his tongue. "No more hiding it. The kid is yours. He's _Bruce's_. How long did you think you could hide that from me?"

She watched him with a gaze so cold and hostile, Jason was almost taken aback. "Long enough," she said coolly. "This is not your concern."

"Uh, yes!" Jason hopped from the examination table, and he threw his arms into the air. "Yeah, it kinda is! Like, what did you think? That I wouldn't put two and two together? Hello, raised by the World's Greatest Detective?"

"He is my son," Talia said. "_Mine_. You have no word in his life, because you have no right to it. Not by blood."

"This isn't about blood," Jason hissed. Anger rose within him, and he felt ready to snap in defense, in disgust. "This is about my family. This is about Bruce, who is… he's a good father. He's a really, really great dad, and he should know about this!"

"Do not." Her eyes flashed with something akin to fear, and Jason took a step back in surprise. "Do not tell him. Do not."

"Why?" Jason stared at her, baffled by her sudden vulnerability. "Why shouldn't I? He's got a right to know!"

Talia took a deep breath, and she glanced at the door. There was a chilly silence, and Jason felt it gnaw at his bones, sending icicles down his spine. "I…" Talia said, swallowing. "I do not want to lose him."

It was possibly the most defenseless thing Jason had ever heard Talia al Ghul say. And the saddest.

And suddenly, Jason had no idea what to do.

_If I tell Bruce, I'll be taking a child from his mother_, Jason thought, staring at Talia's face, genuinely weakened and scared. _But if I don't tell Bruce, I'll be betraying him, because he has to know about this._

"Oh," Jason said thinly. She averted her gaze, folding her arms across her chest as if to fortify herself. "I… I'm sorry, Talia."

"I love my child," she said. She looked to Jason sharply. "But I know Bruce Wayne. I know how he is with his children. And I know that if he knew, he would not rest until he had his child safe by his side."

"He's not cruel, you know," Jason said. He didn't know what to do. He had no idea how to handle this. "He wouldn't deprive you from seeing your kid."

"But he would take him from me," Talia said in a severe tone.

Jason had nothing to say to that.

"Do you understand why I hid it from you?" Talia asked quietly.

Jason nodded, his mind muddled, and his heart a collapsing hole. "Yeah," he said bleakly.

"Then you understand why I do not want you near him." She closed her eyes, spinning away from him. Her long brown hair fell across her back in thick, glossy waves. "If it was a choice between me and Bruce… I know who he would choose. And there is no one I can blame for that."

"He doesn't know Bruce," Jason said. He shook his head fast, and he hoped that maybe he could make her feel better, because he felt awful about this entire situation. "You can't know he'd choose him."

"You do not know Damian," Talia said. She turned back to Jason, and she gave him a bitter smile. "He will choose Bruce."

Jason had never been so sad for Talia al Ghul. His sadness for her almost outweighed his sadness for Tim.

Almost.

* * *

Tim spent days distraught over the fact that the Team— his best friends— was missing. He tried to calm down, rationalize, be smart, but he couldn't bear the thought of it. He imagined what could be happening to them— _skisch-skisch-skisch_, knife in, knife out— and he broke a little every time. There was a part of him that struggled with his lack of action, a nagging voice that told him to go and fight. But what good would he do? He was nothing but a bird with snapped wings now. He knew that.

He knew that.

Wally had been by the day the Warworld appeared in the sky. He'd sat with Tim, talking idly, as only Wally West could. Tim had been quiet, watching with hollow eyes behind dark shadows. Lack of sleep was catching up to him, and he felt weak all the time. He was constantly lightheaded, his body mentally and physically exhausted, and the fact that he couldn't keep food down didn't help. But Wally had pretended not to notice.

"It's quiet around here," Wally had said, looking around the living room. The television was on mute, because Tim couldn't handle listening to the news for more than a few minutes. It made him feel inadequate. "No word from Jason?"

Tim always felt a special sort of stab whenever Jason's name was spoken. Guilt and regret intermingling, a state of chaos at the very utter of his name. Jason Todd was gone, and it was Tim's fault. _He's all alone again_, Tim thought, wringing his hands. All alone because of me. He wished he could go back and… and do something. But wishing was for children. _I'm not a child. Not anymore_.

"No," Tim had said. "Nothing."

Wally had looked away, his eyes flashing sadly. But he stayed quiet, and for that Tim was almost grateful. Tim was locked inside his own insecurities and fears, and they pushed him. Thoughts of Jason, of what Tim had done… All he wanted was to forget. He thought about drowning himself in alcohol, or choking himself on leftover cigarettes hiding under a pillow down the hall, but… Tim couldn't. He'd stick with his painkillers, and sedatives, and pray that would be enough.

"Wally," Tim had said, pulling his knees up to his chin. "When you quit… what… did you feel?"

Wally had a look about him, brow furrowed and eyes flashing in subtle understanding. "What do you mean?" he'd asked, blinking his vivacious green eyes. "Like, was I happy, or something?"

"Yeah," Tim had said, his voice coarse. He scratched his cheek, but his sleeves were too long, so he ended up his rubbing it. "Were you relieved? Or… or guilty?"

Wally stared, and Tim found himself looking down, feeling stupid and horrible. "Sad," Wally said softly. "But in the same way you're sad when you move out, or graduate. It wasn't a relief so much as it was… necessary. For me. And… for Artemis. For us as people to grow and learn, we had to let go of the Team. I don't regret that."

Tim could only stare at the opposite wall, the silence in the room ringing in a pulsating sort of way. It was disorienting, and Tim almost thought he saw something in the corner, but he knew he didn't. "Did you ever think it was selfish?" Tim whispered. "Did you ever hate yourself for it?"

Tim had heard Wally exhale. The room was filled with a lulling shadow, and it draped over them like a thin shroud. It covered their bones, and draped them in a lullaby. A dirge.

"We're not talking about me anymore," Wally had said, "are we?"

Tim could not answer. He felt like he was falling, so he held his knees tighter. There was a soft chuckle echoing. Somewhere. In the corner? In Tim's head?

"Tim," Wally had said, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. "If you don't want to be part of the Team, it's okay. After what happened, no one's gonna blame you, y'know? Don't feel bad."

"It's not just the Team," Tim breathed. "It's… it's Robin. I…" He choked.

"You…" Wally West had looked at Tim, and he'd given him a smile so genuine it had hurt to look at. So Tim didn't. "I get it. I really do. You're scared because you failed, right?"

Tim couldn't speak.

"I know," Wally had said. "Yeah, I know. That was my biggest fear, when I was Kid Flash, you know. I was fast, but goddamn, I was never fast enough. Like, I'd try. God, I'd try, but I couldn't be like the Flash. And… after Jason… and after Tula… and then things started piling up, and one day I kinda just… slowed down. And stopped." He smiled, but it looked solemn.

"I don't want to stop," Tim mumbled. "I want to be… me. But me isn't Robin. I look at the suit, and I'm _disgusted_. But I… I don't want to stop. I think I need to, though."

"Disgusted?" Wally's eyebrows had raised, and Tim took a deep breath.

"Robin is…" Tim's breath had shuddered, his words feeling acrid and heavy. "Robin is strong. Robin is— is hope, and good, and strong, and _happy_, and— and I'm—I'm—" Tim broke off, his voice cracking miserably, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"Hey, hey," Wally had scooted closer to Tim, and he'd given him a one-armed shoulder squeeze. Tim stiffened at the contact, scars stretching in phantom pains. "You're strong. You're good. Hell, Tim, you gave _Batman_ hope! And happiness? That's something that'll come back. You just gotta let people love you, and you gotta love them back. Being happy takes _you_. And it takes everyone around you. But keep your chin up, kay?" He'd winked, and laughed brightly. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

But Tim couldn't figure it out. He knew how to become happy again. He had to get these things out of his head. But how? How could he do that, when it was everywhere, all the time, in the corner, in his head, under his skin? After the news came that the Team was missing, Tim felt worse. So much worse, in fact, that he spent his time busying himself on his laptop. He had to try and find them. Gar, and Bart, and Barbara, and Roy, and Cassie, and…

He felt sick with worry.

He _was_ sick with worry.

After puking up the little he'd eaten for breakfast, he went back to his computer. He stayed in the living room, because he felt closer to Alfred, and when Tim was in his room there was always something lurking in the corner. In the living room it was different. It felt almost safe. _I read to Jason in here all the time. When he was catatonic. _It almost felt like Jason was there now, dead gaze and all. If Tim let himself be taken in by his imagination, he might see Bruce sitting there too, a book in hand. Tim's heart ached at the thought.

Tim was so consumed by his own black hole of emotions, a swirl of guilt and concern and disgust, he could not register anything aside from the information before him. He'd gotten little results. If he wanted to get to the bottom of this, he had to go to the Warworld— which he did not plan on doing.

He was so consumed— he barely noticed Alfred's presence.

"Master Tim," Alfred sighed, pressing a hand to Tim's shoulder. Tim lurched back, a scream dying in his throat, and he winced, his breathing going haywire.

"I—" Tim flushed, and he picked himself off the floor. "I'm sorry, I… you scared me."

"It is I who should be apologizing, I think," Alfred said quietly. Tim stared at him desperately, and he shook his head.

"No," he gasped. "No, no, no, you don't, I was just—!"

"It's quite alright, Master Tim," Alfred said, smiling gently. "But you have a visitor. A certain inquisitive young blonde? She's rather insistent."

Tim's first thought had gone to Cassie. But then he remembered that she was missing along with the rest, and he stood for a moment, uncertain. Then, he choked on another gasp. "Stephanie!"

The girl poked her head in from the foyer, a broad smile plastered on her pale face. "You sound better!" she chirped.

"Better," Tim said. He looked at Alfred, who merely nodded at him. "Um… yeah. Right. Hi, Stephanie, I… I'm sorry. I completely forgot."

She rolled her eyes, sauntering into the room. "You were sick," she said with a shrug. Alfred took a step back, his eyes meeting Tim's questioningly. Tim nodded to him, and said nothing as he left the room. Stephanie looked around, her eyes shooting wide for a moment. "Oh, wow, this place is big."

"Yeah…" Tim pulled his sleeves down over his hands. "Um, I…" He looked down at his research, and he quickly gathered up the notes, scrambling to catch them before she saw. But she'd swooped down beside him, trying to help by gathering up his sheets of torn paper. "Sorry, this mess is huge. I was just…"

"Studying Reachology?" Stephanie offered, her eyes on a sketch of Jaime's scarab. Tim stared at her, his mouth dropping open. He couldn't remember if he had been this nervous the last time he had seen her. It felt like so long ago, he wasn't sure if he remembered exactly what he had done with his case files. He had planned on setting Cluemaster up to go on a heist so that he might be caught in the act. He'd planted the seeds through subtle nudges. For all Tim knew, Cluemaster was back to his old habits by now.

Yeah, it was probably against some sort of moral code, but Arthur Brown beat his daughter. And for that, he deserved jail.

Stephanie looked under the weather. More so than usual. Her face had grown gaunt, not quite as sallow as his, but sunken and skinny all the same. There were heavy bags under her eyes, and she was covered in at least a thin coating of dirt. Mud had dried on her jeans, and he could see shallow cuts running up her arms. She stood with the same air of confidence though, as if none of this bothered her, and Tim could not help but feel jealous.

_She's so strong_, Tim thought, taking the paper from her fingers. _How does she do it?_

"I'm looking for…" Tim pressed his lips together. "Something. It's not really a big deal. Uh… so, I'm sorry I've been sick."

"You look awful," she blurted. Tim looked up at her, and he twisted the hanging hem of his sleeves self-consciously. He watched her pale cheeks glow faintly pink, and she waved her hands quickly to amend herself. "I mean, not awful-awful, like you look nice and stuff, just… you look sick. Still. Yeah."

"Yeah." Tim nodded, setting aside his papers. He noticed how Stephanie's eyes trailed after them. "I still am. Kind of. We're not really here to talk about that, though."

"Right," she said. She took a deep breath. "My dad…"

"Has anything happened since we last saw each other?" Tim asked, watching as she shifted from foot to foot. She looked awkward, and unsure of how to situate herself. "Do you… want to sit down?"

"Oh." She looked down at the black leather sofa, and she sighed. "I'd love to. Really, I would, but I'd…" She gestured to her soiled clothes. "I'm too dirty. I'll just ruin the couch."

"Do you…" Tim bit his lip, forcing himself to calm down. "Do you want to borrow some clothes? I mean, we're all boys here, but I'm sure something old of mine, or Dick's, or… Jason's…"

"You don't have to do that," Stephanie said sheepishly.

"No, it's okay." Tim stood up straighter, feeling a little lighter as he smiled at her. "You can take a shower too, and wash off all the dirt and stuff."

Stephanie looked at him, and her big blue eyes glistened with awe. "Oh," she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Wow, that's… I mean, am I even allowed to do that? Wouldn't your butler or someone be mad?" She looked down, and she began to play with her faded purple scarf nervously.

"Alfred?" Tim shook his head. "I think he'd be disappointed if I didn't offer, to be honest."

She looked so stunned, Tim found himself pleasantly surprised. She was a distraction he'd sorely needed, and he was glad for her. Despite the fact that she took him away from sleuthing for his missing friends (which he still planned on doing). Still there was a part of him that itched, and screamed, and he had to fight it down with everything he had.

He came to the conclusion that his old clothes would fit her fine enough, and showed her to the bathroom. She profusely thanked him, her eyes bright and grateful. Tim could only smile meekly. Stephanie was a nice girl, and conditions hadn't been fair to her so far. He thought it only just that he gave her more help.

He was working on sorting his notes when Alfred approached him, eyes twinkling. "A pleasant girl," he said, smiling down at Tim. "Bold, perhaps, but gracious."

"Stephanie's really nice," Tim said. He shrugged, leafing through his notes. The sketch of Jaime's scarab was nagging at him_. I need to hack more of Ted Kord's files_, Tim reminded himself. _See if I can find anything_. Tim sat down, the papers falling into his lap. "Really, really nice."

"Sir?" Alfred asked, pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder. Tim felt lightheaded again. Sickened, and unbearable. He was an unbearable person. Tim saw himself in the mirror, and there was a smile there that did not belong. "Perhaps we should change your bandages again."

Tim could only nod mutely.

"Alfred," Tim said, his fingers catching the old man's sleeve as he pulled away from the newly stuck bandages to Tim's back. "Can you give me something to… to get rid of bad dreams?"

He sounded like a child. A tight voiced, trembling child. He felt anxious, but he tried not to let it show. This was normal now. Normal, and terrible. There was nothing in the corner but dust and half-dead dreams. That was the bitter truth. And Tim could only sigh at that. Yes, it was sad. But there was no use denying it.

"I believe there is something I can give you," Alfred said, straightening Tim's hoodie for him. The sleeves fell over Tim's hands, just as he liked them. "But I wouldn't recommend it every night."

Tim nodded vacantly, closing his eyes as he slid off the table. "What did Dick tell the Commissioner?" Tim asked. His voice sounds small. Dead. "About Barbara?"

"Nothing." The old butler smiled, and turned away.

"What?" Tim's mouth dropped open, and he felt befuddled. "But… what do you mean? Isn't he going to wonder…?" Tim swore softly, and he quickly pressed his hands to his lips, hoping Alfred hadn't heard. "She's had this type of situation planned."

"She always has had a knack for being prepared," Alfred said with a chuckle.

Tim nodded, moving slowly forward. Barbara had to be okay, right? She was strong, and she was… she was Barbara. Tim trusted that, and he trusted Dick to find them. The only person he didn't trust was himself. _I can keep pretending if I want, but in the end I'll still be dodging the truth. There's a monster in my head, and it's anxious to get out._

"Whatcha reading?" Stephanie asked, striding into the room. Her blonde hair was damp, sticking to her flushed cheeks as she sat down beside Tim on the couch. He hoped she didn't notice him go rigid.

"The… _The Book Thief_," he said, watching her snatch it up from the table. He'd taken to book earlier in the day, in case he needed something to distract him. Stephanie flipped through the book, thumbing carefully through the pages.

"Oh!" she gasped, grinning up at Tim. "It has pictures!" She flipped the book over so he could see the crude drawings.

"Yes," Tim said, turning back to his computer. "Of dead people."

Stephanie's smile fell, and she turned the book back to her. She closed the book quickly, and sat it back down on the table. "Well, that's… creepy," she admitted. Tim managed a nod, settling his research documents on his laptop. He had a few tabs open, and he could switch to whichever one he needed. She was watching him curiously.

"Okay," Tim said, his voice quiet. "So we'll probably have a sound case against him if we can at the very least catch him doing something illegal. It could be as small as recording him threatening you, or—"

"Tim," Stephanie said in a small voice. "You're shaking."

He looked at her sharply, his eyes growing wide. Then he glanced down at his fingers, and saw that his hands were trembling. He felt them, his bones quaking and sending jolts up his arms. His entire body shuddered in response, and he felt like a ticking bomb. He felt fingers grasping his, squeezing them, and whispers in his ear, telling him, teaching him, pulling the trigger for him.

"It's nothing," he said, hiding his hands beneath the comfort of his oversized sweatshirt. "I'm just a little sick."

"Maybe I should come back another time…?" Stephanie asked slowly.

"No!" Tim twisted to face her, mouth falling open in shock. "No way! You're not going back on the streets, Stephanie."

"That's not your choice to decide," she said, frowning.

"Maybe not," he said, "but at least stay here tonight. There's plenty of room."

"Tim…" she sighed, running her fingers through her dripping hair. "That's…"

"Master Tim!" Alfred cried, stepping into the room. He looked at Stephanie, and bowed his head. "My apologies for interrupting, but I'm afraid this is a tad urgent. Sir, the news."

Tim quickly turned on the television. The screen glowed with the image of the Reach Ambassador, and Stephanie made a choking nose. "Lousy Reach," she muttered. "Can't they just leave us alone?"

"—_A hero who almost single handedly saved the earth from the Warworld_!" The Reach Ambassador smiled genially at his audience, and Tim's stomach stirred. Oh no, he didn't like where this was going at all. Something was gnawing at his heart, a sickness that plagued him. The shadow that loomed over him kissed his ear and laughed. "_He saved your lives. He saved _our_ lives. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… Blue Beetle_!"

Tim lurched to his feet, a shout on his tongue. He stared at the screen, his heart dropping into his stomach, and pounding furiously like a drumbeat, _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_, and he had to clamp his mouth shut to keep himself from screaming Jaime's name. Panic settled in his bones, burrowing inside him like a great beast, clawing away and nestling between Tim's ribs and lungs.

_No_, Tim thought madly. _No, no, no, no, no! Not Jaime, not now!_

"_T-thank you_!" Blue Beetle said. "_Thank you all! But it is I who should express gratitude to you, Ambassador. For giving a normal, average human being like me, the power of the_ Reach. _The power to save the world_." The armor covering Jaime's face melted back, and Tim stared at his friend's big brown eyes, searching them for a sign, any sign, of mind control.

For a moment Tim was numb. He heard Stephanie speak, making a weak comment about how Blue Beetle had helped save her once from the Reach. He could feel her eyes on him, curious and questioning, and he could sense her mind beginning to sort out the truth. But he just didn't care. He was shaking, his body rejecting all soothing thoughts, and he felt bare fingers running down his spine. _You're mine, mine, all mine… ha ha!_

"Ha ha!" Tim gasped, clasping his head in disbelief. Laughter bubbled within him like vomit. It tasted just as acidic. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha _ha_!"

"Tim?" Stephanie asked, her voice a distant cloud of smoke. Her face swam before his. "Hey, are you…?"

He threw his head back and cackled, clutching his chest and shaking his head. Oh, this was too much! One betrayal too many, and it all crumbled, like dominoes, clicking _clicking_, falling down, and done. Done for good. Wasn't it so funny? Wasn't it? Tim thought so. Perhaps. He wasn't sure. But god, he couldn't stop laughing!

It was the feeling of complete and utter loss of control. Tim felt his limbs begin to jerk, and his knees gave out beneath him, forcing him to the ground. He wasn't sure what was happening, and everything felt like a silly blur. There was an itching in his chest that just wouldn't go away no matter how hard he scratched, so he laughed, cackled, and _clawed_. Every breath he took was battered, drenched in a giggle or a sob. He didn't know. But something hurt inside him, and he wanted it gone. So he dug, and clawed, and prayed that he could rip it out and dispose of it fast.

It was his heart that hurt him.

_I don't need a heart_, he thought, tears in his eyes as another peal of laughter tore from his throat. _I'd work better without one_.

He held his head, laughter consuming him, and he looked up desperately. Stephanie was kneeling beside him, her lips parted and moving, but he couldn't hear her. All he heard was his own laughter. There was an echo that shrieked back at him in the dark. It felt awful, and he wanted it all to stop. She hugged him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him close. He struggled, gasping, laughing, screaming. But she did not care, and he could hear her giving him soft words of reassurance.

By the time Alfred came back into the room with a sedative, Tim's laughter had quieted into soft giggles. He buried his face in Stephanie's shoulder, and in his heart he could pretend she was Barbara, speaking softly and deliberately, knowing just how Tim's mind worked. _But she's not. Barbara's gone, they're all gone_.

They sat on the floor for a few minutes, and Tim could smell her hair. The soap was familiar, and it tickled his nose. It made him dizzy. _Jason's_. When Tim pulled away, eyes downcast, he felt like someone had slid a knife between his ribs and twisted. His breathing was still heavy, and he felt shame and horror fill him up, breaking him from within. He couldn't look her in the eye.

After a few more minutes, she spoke. "Tim…" she said, her voice almost melodic in the silence. She did remind Tim of Barbara, a little. Of Cassie too. Something in Stephanie gave Tim comfort, and maybe he wanted her to stay out of pure selfishness. "You're Robin, aren't you?"

Tim had nothing to say. He pulled his knees to his lips, tears prickling his eyes. It wasn't fair. He didn't know anymore. Mutely, he shrugged, and buried his face in his arms.

"You were there," Stephanie continued. "That's why you stalked me. You knew me, and you wanted to make sure I was okay. But you couldn't say so, because when we met again, you weren't Robin, right?"

Tim shrugged again. A short chortle was muffled against his knees.

"I figured it out a while ago," Stephanie admitted, smiling slightly. "I saw Red Hood across the street from that diner when I left, you know? But I was too scared to say anything, so I ran. And then when I came here the first time, he came to the door, and I thought, wow, what a coincidence, but then I realized that he wasn't Dick Grayson, so… I mean, Red Hood talked about dying before. And… I don't know. It made more sense in my head."

"You're a good detective," Tim murmured, looking up at her.

For a moment, she beamed at him with pride. Then, her smile fell. "Tim, what happened to you?" She reached toward him, and he flinched back. "Someone hurt you. I can tell, they hurt you really bad."

He shook his head, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. "No," he said, his voice shaky. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

Her eyes seemed to melt, and she gave a short nod. "Okay," she said softly. "I understand. What do you want to do, then?"

Tim looked up at her, and then he saw that she was not Barbara, or Cassie, or Jason, or anyone but Stephanie Brown. Then he reached up, snatching his book from the table, and he offered it to her meekly.

"Read?" he asked. She surprised him by smiling big and obliging.

* * *

Jason was aware that… that his sanity was a little more in check than it had been a few months prior. And he knew he probably had Tim Drake to thank for that. Maybe that was what made it all the worse. Tim had done something for him, something unimaginable, and Jason still wasn't sure how. He remembered the feeling, the inescapable, inexorable truth that his life was nothing but a pit. A dark, sucking pit, and all his emotions were sucked up inside it, whirring and whirling into chaos. Now his emotions had settled down, and he could see a little clearer. Time passed quicker now. The world was less stark, less painful to gaze at and to feel, and that was for the better.

It was like being born again, Jason realized. Only time could numb his senses.

To say he missed Tim was an understatement. Jason had an ache in his chest, a hollow place where the constant company of his replacement had held. Jason was lonely, and Tim was a companion who kept things moving forward. It was hard to linger on the despair and cynicism when Tim reminded him that there was hope for him yet. And now? Jason wasn't sure. Perhaps he'd destroyed all sense of hope already.

Talia cut his hair for him during one of his check-ups. It was a needed change, after all his dark hair was falling into his eyes now. It curled across his brow, and the sensation was strange when it was all sheered away. He heard the scissors snipping, and though she forced his head from side to side, she was… gentle about it. Talia al Ghul. Gentle. It made him want to laugh.

Jason and Talia had always gotten along better than Dick and Talia had. Dick was about as polite to Talia as he could be, and he held no real animosity toward her, but it was clear they would never be friends. Allies, maybe somewhere down the line, but Talia was too stubborn, and Dick was too wary. He had always had a predetermined idea of who Talia was, and he gave her about as much trust as she deserved.

When Jason had been Robin, he'd been kidnapped by a League of Shadows assassin. Jason had wriggled himself away long enough to stumble into Talia's clutches. Of course, Talia wasn't so bad. No, really, she was just… icy. It was so hard to tell what she was thinking, or feeling, or if she was being genuine. Jason was getting better at reading her, but back then, he'd been too naïve to tell the difference between a poisonous smile and a benevolent one.

"So am I healthy, or not?" Jason asked as she dusted remnants of his hair off his shoulders. His ears tickled, unaccustomed to the weightlessness.

Talia carefully ran a comb through the cropped, dark brown strands. Her face was an impassive mask, plump lips pulling taut into an almost baleful smile. Her eyes were soft though, dark and soft and kinder than usual. Her face contradicted itself. But he'd expect nothing less from Talia, really.

"Healthy?" she asked. "Well, I don't suppose you will be dropping dead any time soon."

"How unfortunate," Jason mumbled. She watched him, and she studied his features, eyes narrowing in the slightest.

"You are underweight," Talia declared. Jason jumped, surprised by her chastising tone. "You need to eat more to balance out your exercises. Physically, you are unfit because of your lack of weight. Your muscles are only just returning to their former strength, and there is likely an innumerable amount of damages done internally that I can't fathom." Talia pulled her lush brown curls from their ponytail, and they draped across her shoulders, framing her pretty face. "You are strong, Jason. Strong, and stubborn, and stupid. But no, you will not die. Not from resurrection, at least."

"Oh," Jason said, feeling oddly foolish. He wasn't sure what else to say. He just couldn't guess what she was thinking. "So… are we done with these check ups?"

"Yes." She looked at him with eyes hardened by uncertainty. "Though you are still a mystery. A terrible mystery, but not one likely to be abandoned. We'll find how you came back to life, Jason." She closed her eyes, twirling from him in a swirl of glossy chestnut hair and a long coat. Her voice was thin, but firm, unwavering as she spoke. "You should understand, however, that you may not like the results."

"I know," Jason said quietly. He knew. Oh, god, did he know. "But I don't care."

Talia looked back at him, her lips pulling into a scowl. "I know," she echoed.

He grinned broadly, swinging his legs idly back and forth as he leaned forward. "Does that bother you, Talia?" he laughed. The sound was unnatural and forced. The way she quirked her eyebrow, he knew she could tell. "Aw, you _care_ about me!"

It was more like an accusation than anything else, and she took it as such without batting an eyelash. "I care for your well-being," Talia said, her head cocking curiously to the side. "But only because I must."

"Sure," Jason sighed, running his fingers through his newly chopped hair. The strands tickled his fingers, soft and tussling. He jumped from the table, and he snatched his shirt from a chair in the corner, tugging over his head. "So… about Damian…"

Talia's eyes flashed dangerously toward his, and she turned to face him. "Yes," she said coolly. "What about him?"

Jason felt her gaze pin him in place, sharp as a dagger and nearly as lethal. For a moment he was stunned. "Does he ever like…" Jason scratched his head, puffing out his cheeks indignantly. "Like, you know! Do kiddy stuff?"

"I'm not sure what you are talking about."

"Kid stuff!" Jason cried, his anger getting the better of him. He tried not to think of Damian, but whenever he did Jason was just… _enraged_. No kid should grow up this way. Not even an al Ghul. "You know, playing? Like, baseball or… or well, that's hard to play that by yourself, but you know, basketball, or… a videogame…?" Talia watched him with a blank expression, and Jason's heart crumbled. "_Books_?"

"Damian reads," she said stiffly. "He is very immersed in his studies, and excels at everything he does."

"But does he have fun?" Jason pushed. "Does he like what he reads? School is nice and stuff, but all work and no play is _not_ the way to live. Trust me. I've lived with Bruce Wayne."

"You are not raising my child," Talia said. "I am. And I will raise him as I wish to raise him."

"But—!" Jason objected.

"No." Talia raised her chin, and it made her look more commanding. Jason hated it. "I won't hear any more of this. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Jason stated glumly.

"Good." Talia nodded curtly. "Now go."

Jason gave her a hard stare before he spun around and left the room. Talia couldn't understand, she hadn't been raised normally anyway. It wasn't really her fault, but… god, it made Jason pissed! Childhood was about preserving an innocent and playful nature, but Damian seemed to have already lost his. It was unsettling, and it scared Jason.

He went to train after that. His thoughts were all jumbled, and he needed to channel his anger into his strength. It helped him feel a little better, beating the shit out of some trainees, but not nearly as good as he'd hoped to feel. In truth, the longer he stayed, the wider the hole in his heart became. It hurt, and he couldn't help the peculiar longing for the manor, for the scent of old wood and old books and seasonal candles and freshly baked cookies. Home called to him in a soft lull, and it dug its hooks in him and pulled.

But every time he thought about it, those hooks tore at his muscle, ripping apart his skin and spilling his blood all across the floor. Home didn't want him. Nobody wanted him. That was the sad truth, he supposed. _I'm a great big nothing_, he thought, picking up a gun and weighing it in his fist. The last time he'd tried to kill someone, he'd missed. A fire erupted within him, consuming all other feelings, and his innards were aflame with hatred._ The Joker should be dead. I should have killed him when I had the chance._

It would put Jason at peace to kill the Joker. It would make him feel better about what happened to Tim as well.

He was good at shooting. He knew that, but even so, his aim was off. He was shaky. And that was his fault, because he had a voice in his head telling him that he was all wrong, and that by doing this he was a disappointment. It threw him off. He didn't want to kill anybody. Just the Joker, and the Joker wasn't really a person, was he? No, he was a monster. So it was okay, right?

"You are horrific," a small, shrill voice called to him. Jason nearly jumped, whirling around to face the boy. The other trainees were all watching with varying expressions. But it was Damian who they watched, not Jason. To them, Jason was just a face that could disappear at any given moment. "Give me the gun, imbecile."

"I'm not giving a gun to a six year old," Jason sneered. Damian's sharp blue eyes narrowed, and Jason knew he'd struck a chord. His tan, round face contorted in an irritated way.

"Give it to me," the boy snapped, lifting his chin high. _Oh wow, no mistaking that he's Talia's son_. "Or I'll break your arm."

Jason wasn't scared of Damian. He wasn't even really all that bothered by the seriousness of the threat. There was just something irrational about how much the boy's attitude irked Jason, but he couldn't help it. He wondered if it was all to blame on Talia's parenting, or… well, all little kids were sort of rotten, right?

"Fine," Jason said, glancing at the target dummies behind the shooting range. There was a short wall between the shooter and the dummy to mark the closest a trainee could stand. "But only if you can see over the wall."

Damian looked up at Jason furiously, his little nostrils flaring as stiffened. He glanced at the wall, his nose scrunching up, and he hissed through his teeth, "Tt." He spun away and stalked toward the arsenal wall. For a moment, a silly moment, Jason thought he had given up. So he looked back at his target dummy, porous around the arms and legs and even the groin was relatively damaged. There were only two or three bullet holes in the abdomen, and most of them were located at the sides. Jason had not aimed to kill, that much was for certain. A singular bullet hole at the right breast was the closest he'd gotten.

The demon child pushed past Jason, strolling up to the wall, which he did, in fact, not reach. He slapped the wall and twirled around, strutting right back the way he came. "You might want to move," Damian said. There was a blinking light flashing on the face of the wall, and Jason found himself stumbling back and ducking for cover.

The wall blew, but the explosion was minimal. It was only strong enough to knock down a section of the wall, which was small and thin anyway. Jason was still shocked, though, and his ears rang from the blast. "Holy shit," Jason coughed, blinking through the dust. Damian stood beside him, a smug smirk playing on his lips.

"I believe I can see over the wall," Damian said, plucking the gun from Jason's fingers. Jason wanted to object, but hey, he'd said so. And he also admired the kid's flare. Dick or Tim would never be so bold.

"Damn," Jason said, stepping behind the child as he stood where Jason had stood and aimed. He squeezed the trigger only once, and after the gun went off Damian tossed it at Jason, who caught it carefully.

"You're weak," Damian said, staring up at Jason with a searching gaze. "You don't deserve Batman."

Jason looked at the training dummy. The bullet had gone straight through its left breast. Jason didn't know what to say, how to respond, how to speak to a child like this. Jason liked kids, he was just not very good at dealing with them. Especially not a kid like Damian. Jason felt a peculiar, familiar numbness, and he felt as though the shot had gone through his heart instead. It was the numbness of death seeping through into his bones, giving him clarity.

"What has your mother told you about Batman?" Jason asked slowly. Damian did not flinch, but rather his eyes narrowed a bit, and he cocked his head. The motion was very much Talia.

"He is a mighty—"

"Warrior, yeah," Jason said, "but what else?"

Damian looked confused, and he gave him a look. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I don't think you understand what Batman values, and what he loathes." Jason held up the gun, and he smiled bitterly. "Guns? He hates them with every fiber of his being."

Damian looked away, and merely shrugged. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by a low, smooth voice.

"I must say, this is a surprise."

The voice was familiar, cold and smooth and knowing, and it sent a chill down Jason's spine. He spun on his heel, raising his gun swiftly to have something between him and the one-eyed assassin. He wore his mask, and Jason hated it. He wanted to punch the bastard in the mouth, and beat him until his other eye slid from its socket.

"Deathstroke," Jason spat. He glanced at the girl beside him, a dark haired woman with a strangely severe face. Her features were very harsh, strikingly hard. He forced a cheery smile, his fingers tightening around his gun. "Stopped pursuing underage boys, I see. Congratulations, you are marginally less of an absolute creep."

The woman's eyes flashed wide for a moment upon seeing his face, but she seemed to compose herself fast. Her gun was at his head in an instant, and Jason was left to scowl up at Deathstroke, dull memories of a time when the assassin had been all but sending dead animals to Dick Grayson's window, the creeping had been so relentless. It had been an odd few weeks, but eventually Deathstroke had let… whatever his interest was in Dick slide. Jason still wasn't sure what Dick or Bruce had done to stop it, but he'd been too relieved to ask. Jason wasn't sure if the Team even knew about the extent of it.

"This is my partner at the moment," Deathstroke said, his one eye gazing intently at Jason's face. "Tigress. Tigress, this is the former Robin, Jason Todd."

"Hi, Tigress," Jason greeted, his smile as sweet as a mouthful of blood. "The last time I saw your partner here, he almost took my arm off."

"Now." Deathstroke tilted his head, his eye glistening in amusement. "No need to exaggerate. There was no permanent damage."

"What do you want?" Jason snapped, keeping his grip steady. Let Tigress shoot him. He honestly could not care.

"I'm not here to harm you," Deathstroke said. Jason barked a laugh, and his eyes flashed to Tigress's.

"Tell that to her," he said briskly. To Jason's immense surprise, Deathstroke nodded once, and he raised his hand in signal to the orange and black clad woman. She obliged quickly, her gun sheathed in a flash.

"Now, I believe it's only fair," said Deathstroke.

"Yes," Jason said, his bitter smile still wide. "Says the bullshit fairy. Thanks, but no thanks, I'll keep my gun right here."

"You couldn't kill him if you wanted to, Todd," Damian said, startling Jason. He'd forgotten the boy was there.

"I dunno," Jason hissed, his shoulders tensing. "I'm feeling a lot of old animosity right about now."

"I'm sure," Deathstroke said. "However, enlighten me. What is one of Batman's precious protégés doing here?"

"Chillin'," Jason said. "How about you, reaper creeper?" It was just about the oddest and most uncomfortable thing in the world to be speaking to Deathstroke so casually. Jason was sort of itching to shoot.

"Business."

"As usual," Jason said coldly. He turned to Tigress, who was standing at attention. Jason could only guess that even her work ethic was severe. "Might want to run for it, doll. Deathy here has a bad track record with partners. Lots of 'em end up in body bags."

"On that front," Deathstroke said, his voice drenched in amusement, "Batman and I are the same."

Jason took a quick step back, feeling as though he'd been slapped. "No," Jason spat. "No, shut up."

"Does it still sting?" Deathstroke tilted his head, and Jason could feel his fingers trembling against the trigger. _I could do it. I could._ "Batman was always on time for Dick Grayson. But for you?" He made a noise, a _tsk_, and a growl rumbled at the back of Jason's throat. "It makes you wonder."

"I don't need _you_ to tell me that it's fucked up," Jason snarled. "I don't need anyone telling me that, because I know, I lived it, and yeah, I fucking _wonder_." Jason took a deep, sharp breath, and he took another step back, his body moving closer to Damian's. He straightened, confidence pulling through for him, and he felt a warmth rise in his chest. "But not about Batman. I never doubted him for a second." _Not even at the very, very end, when the numbers ticked _down_, and _down_, and _**down**_, the number one flashing and then light and pain and fire. _

"Your loyalty is admirable," Deathstroke observed. His chilly voice made Jason feel sick. "But mindless."

"Go to hell," Jason hissed. "Just go to hell."

Jason half-wondered if Deathstroke was smiling, satisfied at how easily Jason got angry. But he didn't care. He spun around, and he shot at the training dummy one last time. He hit his target just where he wanted to. There was a hole in the dummy's head, a single wound where, if it was a real person, the left eye would be. Jason exhaled, his muscles relaxing a little. He stuck his gun into one of the holsters hanging from his trousers, and he jerked his head at Damian.

"Come on, we're going," he said, forcing a harsh tone. Damian almost looked surprised, his blue eyes growing big and wide, and he looked so terribly innocent, like a normal little kid instead of a terror.

"Why?" Damian asked, scowling up at Jason. It looked more like a silly pout. "I don't have to go anywhere with you!

"You're gonna come with me," Jason said, pushing past Tigress and Deathstroke. "Because I've got a story to tell you. And I know you want to hear it."

"No you don't!" But Damian was at Jason's heels anyway, like a snappy puppy. "What if I do not wish to hear your stupid story?"

"Then I'll just tell your mom that you're probably skipping lessons, and often."

"No you won't."

"Yes," Jason said, laughing with little mirth. "I will. And then you can't wander off and bother me. It's kind of a win-win, actually."

Damian stopped, and Jason turned to look at him, a wide smirk gracing his lips. The boy was looking up with such a fervent glare, Jason could practically feel its heat on his skin.

"You are a prick, Todd," Damian said, his voice cold.

Jason could only laugh, and pray that Talia never heard him say that word. It wasn't his fault. Even little demon children wanted to expand their vocabulary, it seemed. But it also made Jason happy to hear him sound… relatively normal. He was only six. But Jason felt as though was dealing with a stubborn old man when speaking to the child.

Once again Jason was battling himself. _When Bruce comes back I have to tell him. I have to._

Jason might have been lying.

* * *

A day turned into two. Two turned into three. Dick hadn't been home since the Team had gone missing. And Tim was constantly lost. He thought he was okay, kind of, maybe, but truly? He was lost amongst laughter and screams and the smell of rotting corpses and burning flesh. He was only half there most of the time, and it scared him to death. He was so _weak_, and he knew it. He always had been the weakest of them all, and it was no secret.

Stephanie stayed the first night. Tim had half expected her to be gone before the sunrise, but she'd been too exhausted to rouse before noon. He didn't blame her. He had no idea where she had made her bed before this, but it could not have been easy. When she did wake up, she'd wandered downstairs looking sheepish and nervous. She didn't think she was welcome. And Tim could only watch her with tired eyes, wondering how to deal with the issue of his identity being compromised once again.

But Stephanie was different. She wasn't going to tell.

A day turned to two. Two turned to three. And Stephanie Brown waited. Tim could see her thoughts in her eyes as they roamed the manor curiously, two children broken by a world too cruel. But Stephanie was elastic, and Tim was porcelain. He could see it in her eyes. She was not a will to be easily shattered. And Tim envied her. He saw her thoughts, and he felt a crawling, itching sensation within the pit of his heart. _Maybe just a little longer_, she must have thought. _Then I'll leave_.

But the longer she stayed, the harder it was to leave.

Tim would be lying if he said this wasn't _exactly_ what he wanted.

It was a spiral. It was all a rushing downward spiral, and he could hear the water whooshing in his ears, rising up to meet him. A maelstrom of emotions, envy and fear and guilty and rage and confusion and a strange, twisting feeling that gushed from his mouth like vomit, falling in erratic syllables across a floor of steel and ice and blood. This was a mind broken by circumstance.

This was Tim. Or maybe what was left of him.

Tim wanted to be alone. But not really. It was a harsh contradiction, but he felt awful and uncomfortable when he had to make social— but being alone was so much worse. There was a shadow lurking in the corner. When Tim was alone, there was no one with hold it back, and when he was alone he felt as though he was being swallowed whole.

It was night again, and Tim had relocated to the library after a voice had whispered in Tim's ear, "_If they loved you, they'd be here. If they cared even a little itsy bitsy bit, they'd be here for you, but they've all gone, flown away from itty bitty bird boy, and now? Now you're nothing. Just as it should be_."

Tim wouldn't sleep. There was a face burned into the backs of his eyelids, and though his eyes felt heavy, and his mind was swimming from exhaustion, and typed away. There had to be some…thing… about the… the… the…

"Warworld," Tim mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He saw his reflection in his computer screen, and it was a boy ghost. His eyes were so dark, there were bruises rimming his eyes. He scowled at it, and slammed his laptop shut. There was nothing Tim could do now, not without a proper investigation of the crime scene, or even any sort of evidence at all. Tim was grasping at air with trembling fingers. There was nothing for him to grab.

The library was locked in an eternal quietude. There was a clock that had stopped working decades ago, and its ornate face glowed dimly in the light, skinny arms pointing I and IV. It was still a pretty relic, though. Alfred still polished it, and Tim remembered tinkering with it early in his stay. It was irreparable. _Like me_…? Was he a broken machine? Was that his identity now?

If only he knew.

"Can't sleep?"

Tim jumped nearly out of his skin, Stephanie's voice piercing through the silence like an ice-pick to the heart. He had not heard her enter the library. He had not heard her at all. He twisted in his chair, shaking, struggling to sit up, but she quickly pressed a hand to his shoulder and shook her head. He could see her face, concern contorting her features, floating above his. She forced him to sit back down, and squeezed his shaking shoulder. She reminded him of Barbara again. The thought made him sick and scared.

"Nightmares?" Stephanie offered, sitting down beside him. Tim could only nod mutely. "Yeah. I get it. Mine get bad sometimes too."

"You have nightmares?" Tim asked, looking at her with big eyes. He couldn't imagine Stephanie losing to a silly nightmare. She seemed too strong to be bothered by something so trivial.

"Sometimes," she said, pulling up her legs. His old sweatpants were baggy on her, and the hem swam around her feet. "When I was little it used to be real bad. But when I had no one to run to anymore, I kind of just stopped. Or, well, I handled it."

"How?" Tim choked, eyes only growing bigger. "How did you stop it?"

"I…" She bit her lip, and looked away. "I dunno, Tim. I just did. I can't really explain."

"Oh." He felt foolish for being so hopeful. "What… were your nightmares about? Is it okay if I ask?"

"It's fine," she smiled, and she yawned, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "Um, silly stuff. Running away and getting trapped in a huge bubble, or underground, or in the sky, and… then the world kinda collapses. Like, crumbles in on itself, and it's just me and all this suffocating." She grinned at him, and it looked sort of eerie on her face. "I also have nightmares about this dragon named Bartholomew who tries to kidnap me to feed to his baby dragon children."

Tim tried not to laugh, but he couldn't help it. He muffled the snicker with his hand, and she beamed at him. "Bartholomew?" Tim asked, tilting his head. "What's that about?"

Stephanie shrugged. "It's fancy." She ruffled her hair, which was sort of a mess of blonde waves, and she laughed. "When I was little, Harry Potter was on, and it was the one with all the dragons, and I was like, four, right? And oh my god, I think it scarred me for life. Don't get me started on the Basilisk."

"You were scared of Harry Potter?"

"Terrified!" She was smiling so big, it made _his_ facial muscles hurt. "I used to pretend I was Harry so I could slay all the monsters."

"I used to pretend I was Sherlock Holmes," Tim admitted, the memories of his lonely childhood resurfacing.

"That isn't even remotely surprising," she said with a giggle. "Did you have a little pipe, and a hat?"

"Duh."

"That's adorable!" she gasped. He felt himself flush in embarrassment, and look down. "So… what are your nightmares about?"

And instantly Tim paled. _Whatever it takes, whatever it takes_… laughter and screams and _skisch-skisch-skisch_ and bodies, so many bodies in the dark, the smell of decay and festering wounds… He had to take a deep, shuddering breath before speaking again. "It's…" He closed his eyes. "It's hard to explain. It's like everything… bad… that happened to me just… just combines and attacks me all at once. And I'm… scared of what I become."

She looked at him, and all her laughter seemed to be sucked away. He thought that was ironic. "You're scared to go to sleep," Stephanie observed, her voice a murmur.

"I'm scared of what happens when I go to sleep," Tim said. "When I'm asleep, I'm in a room." His eyelids were drooping heavily, and his mind was muddled and incorrigible. "It's always dark, and damp, and there's people rotting somewhere in the dark, and the smell is like nothing imaginable, and…" He could see she was horrified, but he was puking words now, shaking so badly he thought he might bit his tongue off. "And I can smell my skin burning, and but I can't fathom it because it… it hurts too much… and there's more. So much more, and it's awful. That's— That's the nightmare, Steph, and I can't escape it, not ever."

She looked at him, and her eyes were so wide, he thought she was going to cry. But she didn't. She straightened up, and she lifted her head high. "Yes you can," she declared, so loud it hurt his ears.

"No."

"Yes!" She scooted her chair closer, and she stuck her finger against his forehead. "Listen up, Tim. You're gonna sleep tonight, and you're not gonna go to that room. You're gonna go to sleep, and you'll be in this library. But, like, dreamland library. Maybe the books fly, or something. But your gonna do it."

"It's not that sim—" Tim objected. She clapped her hand over his mouth, and she waggled her finger.

"Nope. Not hearing it. Look, I'm here. I'll wake you up if you look like you're having a nightmare." She pulled her hand back, and her smile gave him a blanket of comfort. Tim wondered what Jason would have done if he were in Stephanie's place. For some reason, Tim felt as though he'd do the exact same thing.

"It's bad," Tim said, closing his eyes. "I don't want you to see me when I'm like that."

"I won't," Stephanie told him. "I won't, because you're just gonna sleep. No nightmares."

Tim looked up at her, and she nudged a book toward him, smiling gently. Tentatively Tim folded his arms across it, resting his head down. He watched Stephanie with drooping eyelids, and she began to talk. He couldn't hear the words, but just… hearing her speak made a difference. It was as if she was fighting away with demons with her voice, and for that he was grateful.

He fell into a stream of black, his body whipping against the current. It was a flume, dragging his soul up and down and all around, ripping him through invisible boughs and across jagged rocks. He heard laughing in the darkness, and he screamed, thrashing against the dark, but water filled his mouth. He was stuck in a flow of silky words and harsh laughter, stuck within a rush of memory, and he was drowning in it all.

"Help me!" he cried. River water filled up his lungs, and he gurgled. "Help me! Someone, please—"

There was nothing to help. He was a wisp, and he was gone. Nothing was left but a ghost, and he twisted and screamed. Or maybe he didn't. He wasn't sure.

He was spat onto a shore, and his body was broken apart. His arms were sticking out of the mud, and his head was rolling back into the river. Luckily his arm caught it, and he began to reassemble himself, piece by gruesome piece. He sat for a moment, his head in his lap, and it grinned up at him manically. The disembodied head sprung into life, eyes snapping open, and they were teary and fearful. His cracked and bloody lips parted, spitting blood and laughter, and his fingernails dug into his cheeks, blood pooling from the punctured skin and falling like tears.

"Stop crying," he told himself. "Stop laughing. Stop being you!"

His head obeyed, but now it just looked dead. Tim's blue eyes were gauzy and lifeless.

"Let me see." A pair of hands took his head from him. "What did you do, Tim?"

Tim's shoulder's buckled. "Throw it away," he moaned, his headless body shaking. "I don't want to look at it anymore."

"It's you," the man said, blue eyes hard. "I'm not throwing you away."

"You should." Tim might have been crying, he didn't know. His face was growing paler and paler in Bruce's hands. "It's evil. It's disgusting. Look at it!"

"I see," Bruce said. "You think you're evil."

"Don't you?"

Bruce didn't answer. He disappeared, his body flickering like a shadow, and then he was gone, Tim's head thumping against the riverbank. Tim picked it up, and he held it with shaky fingers.

There was laughter somewhere. Tim pressed his fingers to his eyes and _squeezed_, watching his mouth fall open, and his own voice screamed in fear and agony.

When he woke up, his eyes ached. He sat for a moment, eyes drooping, and he shook his head. There was laughter in his mind, taunting him mercilessly. Tim groaned, clapping his hands of his ears and sinking into his seat. There was a numbing silence, and it enveloped him like a funeral shroud.

He sat for a few minutes basking in the silence. And then he lifted his head groggily, his body feeling heavy and stiff.

"Stephanie?" he called, pushing himself to his feet. She was gone. For a moment, Tim was fine. The silence was fine. But then it became coaxing. There was a demon in the dark, and it was a monster that dragged him by his feet, pulling him away from the things he thought real and drenched them in lies to make him a monster too. He wouldn't have it.

Tim turned, his eyes flickering over the library. He walked slowly toward a bookshelf, his bare feet padding against hard wood, and he stared at the book left laying on its spine, still sitting on the shelf. He swallowed uncertainly, anxiety creeping, and then he readjusted the book. He pulled it down again, and the wall clicked, sliding apart.

Tim took the lift down. He spent the entire ride trying to tame his anxiousness, his body sinking into the shadows, and they called to him. They told him the truth. He hated them. When Tim reached the cave, he stumbled from the lift with a gasp, sweat gathering at the back of his neck despite the fact that he felt chilly. He was spinning wildly, eyes going wide, and he called to the empty cave.

"Stephanie!"

He should not have left her in the library by herself. He shouldn't have fallen asleep and allowed the naturally curious girl to wander. He was so angry with himself, he almost missed the note sitting beside one of the monitors, which was on and buzzing softly. Tim lifted the paper, his eyes flickering over the words, barely processing them.

_Tim,_

_Went after my dad. So sorry, I owe you._

_If not back by dawn, don't wait._

_Steph_

She'd drawn a large heart beside her name, as if her love could negate the idiocy of her actions. Tim was overwhelmed. How could she have gone off like that, without a warning? Did she understand how dangerous that was? And did she really think she could take her father alone? Tim should have been with her! He should be there, watching her back, and it wasn't fair! She could be dead. _She might be dead_…

"No, no, no," Tim breathed, shaking his head furiously. "No!"

Slender fingers wrapped around his wrist, whirling him around. Tim shrieked, shielding his eyes as a laugh reverberated through the cave. It wakened the bats above, and they screeched softly, their wings beating softly before they settled. There was only air though, and Tim gasped, clutching his chest with both hands.

He was so scared. What was Tim becoming? He was losing his mind, and the longer he was left alone, the longer the madness festered. He wanted to scream, and he did. He screamed, and he wasn't sure why. He just did it to do it, to feel his throat go raw and tears form in his eyes.

He ended up on the floor somehow, huddled in a ball. Jason's video was playing, he heard it, and it sounded like comfort. Tim was shaking all over, his legs and arms and shoulders quaking. He took shallow breaths. He calmed himself with the sound of Jason's voice, wishing for someone, anyone, to come and beat the demons away.

"—_never blamed you, Bruce, not ever. I need you to know that. I was only angry, I think, because you never avenged me. And I think I'm still bitter about that. The Joker deserves to die. I need to do it. I don't know if I will, but I'm gonna try. And I'm gonna keep trying until one of us dies. See, Bruce? I know you don't condone killing. So don't condone me. I don't care. I don't need your approval, okay, I just wanted you to know. It was never your fault, and this isn't your fault either. It's mine. It was always mine, and I'm sorry you had to grieve for me, and I'm sorry that it changed you, and Dick, and Alfred, and everyone. I… I love you guys, and I'm sorry if I hurt you_."

Tim bit his lip, listening to the words as if they were poison and a drug. He wanted to sink away, melt into nothing, and then fade from existence. It would have been better, maybe, if Tim had never arrived. Wouldn't it? Because then, everyone would be happier. Maybe even Tim too.

When Stephanie returned an hour later, she stood over him clad in red and black, her blue eyes hidden by a mask. Tim had fallen asleep, perhaps, and now he was in a dream about Robin. That was okay. A better dream than usual. So when he stared at her, and she smiled nervously, he did nothing but close his eyes, and beg for a void.

"I'm sorry," Stephanie said, bending on her knees before him. She was bleeding from her mouth, and her forehead, and her arm. There wasn't enough Kevlar shielding them, Tim saw. She was wearing an old, tiny Robin costume. _Dick's_, Tim realized. When she raised her hand to reach out to Tim, though, he saw her gloves were Jason's. "I'm so sorry, I know this totally betrayed your trust, and I didn't mean it like that at all, but it was the perfect chance, and I had to, Tim, I couldn't stand not going out and nabbing him!"

Tim realized he was awake, and he flinched away from her touch. He almost wanted to push her. He was angry, and he glared at her, jumping to his feet and spinning around, squeezing his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his palms.

"You could have died," Tim said, his voice empty.

"I didn't," Stephanie sighed. "I was careful, I swear. I've done this vigilante thing before. Or well, tried it. It's different with a real outfit though. Safer."

"You could have _died_!" Tim snarled, rounding on her. She stumbled back, her eyes going big with shock and fright. "A rogue could have grabbed you, gassed you, tied you up, and they wouldn't even kill you then, they'd just torture you for the shits and giggles because you're wearing a _Robin_ costume." Tim was seething. He took a deep breath, his fists shaking, and his jaw clenching. "You think you were careful? You're bleeding! And that's just the visible damage! You can't just take a suit and decide you want to play the vigilante game! It's not that simple. How could you do something this reckless? Do you have _any_ idea what could have happened to you?"

"I can imagine," Stephanie said. She had no tone. She was simply looking at him, and her eyes flashed to her feet. "I'm sorry. But I saw my dad on your computer thingy—"

"You should have woken me up!"

"I wanted to do it," Stephanie whispered. She closed her eyes, and took a shaky breath. "I wanted to catch him myself. He's my dad, I have the right to."

"You had no idea what you were getting yourself into," Tim said, his voice lowering. He felt like he was going to be sick. "You have no idea what you just got yourself into."

"I can fight!" She frowned. "It's not as if I can't! I'm good, okay, I can take care of myself!"

"So could I!" Tim shouted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Being _good_ doesn't count for much when you're under a knife."

That struck a chord with her. Her lips began to tremble, but she did not cry. "Tim…" she said, her voice a breathy sigh.

"You took advantage of how exhausted I was," Tim said, closing his eyes. "Why couldn't you just wake me up?"

"I…" Stephanie seemed to be choked up, and she shook her head fast. "I act on impulse. That's… I dunno, Tim, I'm so sorry. I just… I don't think before I do things. I just _do_ them."

"I can tell."

She stared at him, and she peeled back the domino mask, pressing it into his hand. "I don't want to be Robin," she said, blue eyes big and genuine and glistening. "I just wanted to catch my dad."

"You're not going to stop," Tim said, running his fingers across the mask. "You're going to keep trying to fight crime. Because it's got its hooks in you, and it's never going to let go. That's what happens. You'll never be the same now."

"Over-exaggeration, much?" Stephanie murmured.

"I'm not exaggerating," Tim said. "You won't be the same. You'll get yourself killed because of this."

"No." She lifted her head, and she scowled. "I'm done. My dad's going to jail. I'm done."

"You're not."

"I won't steal the suit again," she said, searching his face desperately. "I won't even look at it. I don't want to be Robin, and I'm not fighting crime. I just wanted to catch my dad."

"It doesn't matter!" Tim shook his head, stepping back from her. Stephanie stared at him, and she looked so sad and downtrodden, Tim felt bad for yelling. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters. It's done."

"I'm really sorry, Tim," Stephanie said quietly. She shifted from foot to foot, her eyes cast down at the floor pitifully. "I'll go if you want me to."

"Don't be stupid," Tim sighed. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You're staying here."

"Are you—?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Tim folded his arms across his chest, and he gave her a shy smile. "You're not going back on the streets, Stephanie. Not ever."

She stared at him for a few moments, and Tim could see tears gathering in her eyes. He began to apologize, but he choked on his words when she flung her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He went rigid, his entire body rejecting the motion, his thoughts taking him far away, and he felt the need to squirm and thrash. He didn't though. He let her hug him, her chin resting on his shoulder, and she squeezed him so tight he could barely breathe.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are the nicest person in history. I think you're the nicest person I've ever met, ever. And I'm so sorry I betrayed you like that, I'll never ever do it again, I swear. You're like an angel, Tim."

_No,_ Tim thought, tentatively hugging her back. _I'm not an angel, Steph, I'm not_.

"Thanks," he mumbled into her hair, feeling uncomfortable and restless.

Dick decided at that moment to zeta in for the first time in days. Tim and Stephanie jumped apart, looking at the zeta tube with wide eyes. Dick appeared, his designation singing. Barbara's sang right after, and Tim felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. They were both standing there, looking between Tim and Stephanie with varying degrees of confusion crossing their faces.

"Barbara!" Tim gasped, pushing forward, his bare feet clapping against the concrete floor beneath them. He skidded to a stop before her, looking up at his mentors with a hopeful gaze. "You're okay. Is everyone okay? What happened? What did they do to you, you look hurt, are you hurt?"

She was leaning on Dick for support, but she smiled at Tim warmly, and she laughed. "I'm fine," she said, pushing off Dick, her arms catching Tim's shoulders, and she pulled him into a tight hug. Tim could feel how weak her body was just by the way she forced herself to pull back, so her weight wasn't completely on him. She was exhausted, and he understood. He didn't mind her hugging him. She was safe, and her cape was warm and familiar, and it made him happy.

"I'm really glad," Tim murmured into her shoulder. "I should have been there."

Barbara sighed, releasing him. She stood by herself for a few moments, before she grabbed Dick's arm to keep herself upright. "Tim," she said gently. "You would have been captured too. That would have been a disaster. I'm glad you were here, because you were safe. That was the best comfort I had when Blue betrayed us."

"He didn't betray you," Dick said, his voice hard. "He's on mode."

Barbara pressed her lips together thinly, and she nodded, her eyes flashing away from Dick's face. "Tell me you have a plan," she sighed. "Please tell me it involves Zatanna and the hieroglyphs."

"Well, in fact…" Dick smiled at her broadly, and Tim found himself slumping in relief. Jaime would be okay. Then Dick looked at Tim, and his smile turned to a nervous grin. "Tim, why is there a girl wearing my old uniform?"

"Uh…" Tim looked back at Stephanie, whose eyes shot wide.

"This was _yours_?" she gasped, her head tilting downward. "Seriously?"

"Yeah…" Dick said, glancing at Tim. Tim could only sink into himself, frowning at the ground.

"Your butt was really tiny," Stephanie said bluntly. "Like, holy crap, wedgie."

Tim looked back at Stephanie, his mouth falling open. "Steph…" he said, staring at her incredulously. She met his gaze with a coy smile.

"What?" she whined, jumping up beside him. "You said you forgave me, so now I'm free to be goofy, right?"

"Well..." Tim bit his lip, glancing up at Dick and Barbara, still dressed as Nightwing and Batgirl. Seeing them simultaneously made him want to put on his old costume, and maybe then throw himself into a wood chipper in order to shred both it and him. "No, I'm still mad at you."

Stephanie looked down, and she sighed, nodding slowly. "Yeah, that's fair."

"What happened, now?" Dick said, his smile wane. Tim knew he was wary of Stephanie. That made him angry too.

"Maybe if you were home," Tim said vacantly, "you'd know."

The whites of his eyes went large, and his mouth fell open. "Tim…" Dick said, his tone pleading. "I was trying to—"

"Find the Team, yeah," Tim said. He felt a little dead on the inside. "You could have done that at home."

"I couldn't," Nightwing sighed, closing his eyes. "I wanted to keep this as far from you as I could."

"Why?" Tim's eyes flashed. "Do you think I'm too unstable to handle _research_?"

"No!" He looked surprised. "Tim, why… wow, okay, you're angry. I'm sorry. You're right, I should have been around more."

"Yes," Tim spat. "Yes, you should have! God, you're just as bad as Bruce!"

Barbara's eyes flashed wide beneath her cowl, and looked at him sadly. "That's not fair, Tim," she said gently.

"It's not wrong, either," Tim said. He stared at Dick, pinning him with a dead gaze and a bitter smile. "Bruce couldn't take how fucked up Jason was, so he pushed him away, and by the time he started paying attention he had to leave. And now Jason's gone, and I don't know if he's coming back, and you know what?" Tim laughed, and it sounded like a monster's chuckle. "If I were him, I wouldn't. It's not like there's anything to come back to."

He stood in the silence, his words sinking in. They stared at each other, Dick and Tim and Barbara and Stephanie, and Tim felt his heart fall into his stomach. _I didn't mean that_, he wanted to scream. _I didn't mean any of that_! But he said nothing. He stared, and he looked away, his breath quickening. He shook his head, and took a shaky step back.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, spinning around and running.

He ran from the cave as fast as he could, ignoring the shouts of his name, and tears burned his eyes, so he clapped his palms over them, running blindly. He began to scratch at his eyelids in the elevator, cursing himself aloud as his nails dragged painfully over sensitive skin, and he cried and cried, burying his face in clawing fingers.

When the lift opened, Tim flung himself out, navigating blindly around the table, and around book cases, but he was too distraught to think. The world was crumbling around him, and he could hear himself laughing, but he wasn't sure if it was a dream or reality. There was a monster inside him, and it had just come out, bursting at the seams of newly stitched wounds, and Tim wanted to scream in frustration.

He stumbled, his body falling to the floor, rolling over itself into a pitiful knot of limbs. He laid there on his back, his chest heaving as he laughed, and he felt the world spin around him, a myriad of stars crossing his blackened vision. He smiled, and laughed some more, basking in the comfort of the familiar luminescence. Life coiled and uncoiled before him, strings of fate locking and changing, forever and never, dead already, and it took his breath, took his laughter, took it all from him in a sigh.

"Tim." It was Dick. Tim could tell by the voice. So he laughed louder, twisting violently, his body thrown into a spasm. "Tim, I never meant to hurt you."

Dick hugged him, and Tim screamed and laughed into his chest, pushing and clawing at Dick's face, blind and scared and gone, because Tim was with the stars, and this was nothing now, just a shell of a boy who could not bear it all. Tim calmed when his sense began to return, but only barely. The laughter died, but the screams didn't. They melted into helpless sobs, and Tim pushed at Dick's chest, twisting and squirming in his grasp.

Eventually he just collapsed, sobbing and gasping into Dick's shoulder.

"Liar," Tim whispered into Dick's ear. "Y-you lie about everything."

Dick's breath was short. He looked down at Tim, and there was sadness there, an old ache, and a new one. He held Tim tight, and he shook his head, rocking Tim back and forth as is to lull the sense back into him.

"Maybe," Dick admitted, closing his eyes. "But I'm not lying about this."

"You said you wouldn't leave," Tim breathed. "You said it. You lied."

"I… I know. That was wrong, Tim. I should have been here whenever I could." Dick wiped the tears from Tim's cheeks with his thumb, and he smiled. "I'm not avoiding you, it's not like that. I just want to keep you safe, and that… that means that I have to work from outside the manor. But I never want you to feel like I don't care about you. I love you, Tim, and I want you to be safe and happy and alive, and sometimes I just forget, and that's all my fault, I'm stupid and I'm all over the place, and not even a little traught, and I'm so sorry that you felt alone, because you're not. Not ever."

Tim took deep breaths, but it didn't soothe the hole in his chest. It only made it bigger, gaping open and tearing him apart from the inside. He looked up at Dick, and part of him was filled with hatred, but another part was just too empty to hate. So he pushed Dick away, crawling a few feet away so they were no longer touching.

_You're right_, Tim thought, laughter in his head, and lips against his ear, and fingers around his wrists_. I'm never alone. Which is why I need you to be here. I need someone to make it go away_.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Tim said quietly. "But I wasn't wrong. I needed you here, and you— you weren't." Dick's face was inscrutable, but Tim didn't care much. He closed his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath. _Don't you know how hard it is to stay being myself?_ Tim wished he could say_. I need you here to remind me that I'm still Tim. I need you to keep me together, but that's not working. Nothing is working_. "You weren't here when Jason needed you either."

"I'm so—"

"I _know_ you're sorry!" Tim hissed, his eyes snapping open. They were ablaze with guilt and fear and rage. "I _know_ that you're busy, that you're trying to save the world, and I get that! But…" Tim swallowed, and he couldn't speak anymore. He felt fingers in his mouth, pinching his tongue down.

"But I can't do it by myself," Dick said softly. He pulled his mask off, and Tim saw his eyes. They were exhausted, full of guilt and grief and uncertainty. "I know. Losing the Team… made me realize just how bad we messed up."

"We?" Tim stared at him, and Dick slumped. He was smiling sadly, and he shook his head.

"_We,_" Dick said. "Me… Kaldur… Artemis… we thought we could do this on our own, but we can't."

"What are you…?" Tim's eyes widened, and Dick looked at him, and he scooted closer. "Kaldur and Artemis…? But—"

"It's time that I tell you," Dick said, running his fingers through his hair. "It's way past time, honestly."

Tim sat, propped up against a book case, his world halting its unraveling just long enough to listen. Clarity was harsh, and it burned his skin and his eyes and his exposed heart.

* * *

"I hate you."

Jason groaned, pulling his blanket over his head. He really needed to bolt down the grate of his air vent. This was the third time this week that Damian had snuck into Jason's tiny room, and it was exhausting just to hear his voice now. Jason wanted to scream, because he had been sleeping, and it had been nice, with bearable nightmares and everything, and why couldn't he just sleep in peace?

"Go away, demon," Jason mumbled into his pillow. "I hate me too. No biggie."

Damian tore the blanket from him, and a chill ran through Jason's body, and he shuddered, curling into himself. Maybe if he ignored the child, he'd give up.

"I hate how pathetic you are." Damian's voice was piercing, and Jason grabbed his pillow and whipped it at the boy's head. He dodged it with ease, and Jason glowered at him, sneering in disgust. The boy's face was shadowed in the darkness. "You talk of Batman, but you don't exhibit his prowess. You complain about his rules, but you refuse to break them yourself. You are _weak_, Jason Todd!"

"Oh my god," Jason moaned, tossing his head back. "Get the fuck out, I don't want to hear this."

"You need to hear it!" Damian grabbed his arm, and Jason pulled back, eyes wide. "If you're going to be part of the Shadows, you have to learn!"

"I'm not part of the Shadows," Jason growled. He yanked at his arm, wondering where Damian had gotten the idea in the first place. "I don't want to be an assassin, Damian, that's not why I'm here."

"Well," Damian huffed, "you should be."

Jason studied the boy's face in the darkness, and his eyes widened. "Talia put that idea in your head," Jason said. The thought made him dizzy and sick. He didn't want to be an assassin. He kind of just wanted to go home, but… but how could he?

"No."

"Yes." Jason sighed, exasperated and confused. It was too dark to see anything, so he reached for his candle, grasping it tightly. "Let go of me, I need to light this."

"I don't understand," Damian said after Jason lit the candle. The spark of light bounced off the dark walls, and the boy's face was alight and shadowed. His cheekbones were particularly prominent. "Why are you here if not to learn? You need the training."

Jason gritted his teeth, setting the candle down. "Gee, thanks," he hissed. He sat on his cot for a few moments, feeling uncomfortable and tired. He ran his fingers over his palm, looking down at the faintly raised scar from when he'd cut it open in front of Tim. He remembered it clearly, drawing the Joker's face on the wall. And missing the shot. He should have known then. He was destined to fail. "I'm here because your grandpapi is supposed to be helping me with something. I don't know if he's actually doing it, though. I haven't seen him since I came here."

"Grandfather is busy," Damian said slowly. Jason glared at him. Couldn't he just leave? "How long are you staying?"

"I don't _know_!" Jason gasped, flinging his arms into the air. He was irritable from being awoken so early. "Shit, kid, like, whenever the hell he decides to tell me what he figured out is when I leave!"

Damian's eyes flashed, and Jason's arms fell. The boy's face contorted, and Jason knew he'd woken a little dragon.

"Well you _should_ know!" Damian cried, his stance moving apart as he leaned forward. It made him look smaller. "You have been here for weeks, and yet you know nothing! You have learned nothing, and you are a disgrace to my father's legacy! You do nothing with the training he gave you, and it makes me sick to look at you!"

Jason jumped to his feet, towering over the child by far. His shadow enveloped Damian's body, forcing him to become nothing but a tiny silhouette.

"The _why are you __**here**_?" Jason snarled, his body taut with rage. His body shook, and his teeth were bared, and he felt like an animal.

Damian looked at him, and Jason's body went limp. The boy's eyes were wide, surprised, and he looked as though he simultaneously wanted to rip Jason into pieces and sob into his chest. He did neither. He composed himself, and took a step back, anger still radiating off him as he sneered.

"I hate you," Damian snapped. "I hate you, I _hate_ you! It's not _fair_!"

Jason looked down at him, a boy with everything he could ever want for at his fingertips, and he could not fathom it. How could anyone ever be so spoiled? It wasn't fair? Well fuck that! Life wasn't fair to anyone! Damian had a sad excuse for a childhood, but Jason knew he didn't realize that. One day he would, but not now. What did he have to complain about? Jason didn't understand.

And then he did.

"You hate me because I know Bruce," Jason said, "and you don't."

Damian's eyes went very wide, and Jason knew he was right.

"Don't be an imbecile," Damian snapped.

"It's true," Jason said, feeling his anger disperse. "Oh, god, you've lived your whole life wondering, and I've told you all this stuff, and now you hate me because I got to live the life you should have. Don't tell me I'm wrong."

"You are insane," Damian said, straightening up. "I hate you because you are insane, and you are an imbecile, and you can't do _anything_!"

Jason laughed. He laughed and laughed, his laughter ricocheting across the walls, and he shook his head, falling into his bed and rasping when Damian kicked him in the chest. He kept laughing, and then he sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Ooh," he breathed. "Ooh, maybe I am crazy…"

"Todd!"

Jason quieted himself, staring at the ceiling sadly, and he felt like he was sinking into the cot. His body was disintegrating, and everything was falling apart before him, the ceiling crumbling, and the walls pealing back like old paint, revealing a crushing void.

"I don't want to be an assassin, Damian," Jason said firmly. "I just want to be me. I won't kill people. That's not who I am."

"It is who _I_ am," Damian said. Jason sat up, watching him curiously. "But Father won't like that, will he? You said so. He does not like guns, or killers, or the Shadows."

"You aren't an assassin," Jason said. He said it very gently, as if he was speaking to something unstable. "Not yet, anyway. You don't have to be an assassin, you know."

"You really are an imbecile," Damian sighed.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason grumbled. "I'm a dumbass, I know, but seriously, you don't have to be an assassin if you don't want to. Bruce will love you either way."

"He does not know I exist." Damian looked down at his feet, and he sounded small for once, as if his confidence had shrunken. "You say these… things, Todd. You say things, but I don't believe you, because you are crazy, and I believe you are lying."

"You don't believe me because you hate me, and you don't _want_ to believe me," Jason said. "But you should, because I'm right."

"No."

"Yes," Jason gasped. "Yes, I am! I may not know much, okay, but I know Bruce. I know that if he ever met you, he'd do whatever he thought best for you, because he'd care."

"You can't know that!" Damian shouted. "You do not know that, Todd!"

"Why are you fighting me about this?" Jason blinked at him, and then he began to wonder. "Talia said something, didn't she?"

"Why do you keep blaming my mother?" Damian's eyes narrowed in the candlelight, and Jason shrugged.

"Because she's a manipulative bitch?" Jason offered. He cried out throwing the child off him after his tiny fist connected with his jaw. The impact hurt more than Jason had expected. "Hey, hey! She a _lovable_ manipulative bitch! I meant that affectionately!"

"I hate you, Todd," Damian spat.

"Oh, I know." Jason rolled his eyes. "You keep telling me."

"Because you are infuriating."

"Yeah, and an imbecile, and crazy." Jason smiled bitterly. "Sit down. I'm gonna tell you a story."

"I do not want a story." Damian scowled in defiance, but Jason knew better.

"Kay, so there was this one time on the Team—"

"Team?"

"Seriously?" Jason cocked an eyebrow. "I never talked about them?"

Damian's scowl deepened, and Jason splayed his hands in the air. "So, uh, the Team is like the Justice League, but not, because they're all really young and stupid and hormonal. It's like High School for heroes, except way more fun, and a little less underage fucking up— though, there was this one graduation party—"

"Todd." Damian watched him lazily. "I do not care."

Jason winced. "Yeah, it's too raunchy for your sweet, innocent ears to hear anyway." He smiled big when Damian objected. "So one time the Team was left without a den-mother, and like, this was pretty early in my experience as Robin, so it was a pretty damn big deal, like I don't even know what they thought we were going to do, but it was training day and we had no one to train us, right?"

Damian was staring blankly.

"Right!" Jason clapped his hands together. "So Dick ended up being like, "Hey, guys, I know the best way to piss off Batman, hold on, lemme make a call!" And then he did, and about an hour later Catwoman showed up, and I still don't know how he convinced her to babysit us for two hours, but she did, and she served all of us our asses on a platter. Though it was pretty close with the senior members of the Team, Dick especially, because they were pretty used to fighting each other." Jason leaned back and smiled a little at the memory. "It was a weird day, man. I kinda miss those days, to be honest. It was fun."

Damian stood in silence for a few moments, doing nothing but stare at Jason vacantly. Then he blinked, and frowned. "What was the point of this story?" he asked, scrunching his nose.

"To shut you up."

* * *

Stephanie helped more than Tim had expected her to. She caught on quickly to his habits, and whenever Dick was not around she made sure she was in the room with him. But Dick was learning from his previous mistakes. He was home when he could be, and he even assigned Tim to research duty, which was a needed relief. Tim was even happier to find that the research was on Ted Kord, and involved hacking. Plus, it helped Jaime.

"There," Stephanie said, "is nothing in your Netflix queue."

"Mm." Tim was bent over his computer, half listening to her. They were both sitting on the couch, but she was not interested in researching Ted Kord, for some reason Tim could not fathom.

"You watched Supernatural?"

"I watched the first few seasons," Tim said, scrawling down some notes about the Scarab. "I didn't have time to get through ten seasons, though."

"Aren't they making a movie?"

"I wouldn't doubt it."

Stephanie rocked back and forth, the remote in her hands as she flicked through movie titles. "So like, what are you gonna do when you fix Blue Beetle?"

Tim shook his head, leaning back against the couch. He drummed his pen against his leg, and he sighed. "I don't know," he said, still staring at his screen. "Nothing, I guess."

She stared at him, her mouth falling open. "You've gotta do something," she said, leaning forward. He shook his head. "Tim, are you really quitting heroing forever?"

"I don't know," Tim repeated. "Maybe."

"I don't think you should." Stephanie's voice was soft, and Tim felt guilty just sitting there. He knew what she was doing, and he could let her do it. He wasn't going back to being Robin. He'd only cause more grief, for himself and for everyone else. "You're too awesome to waste all that talent sitting on a couch watching reruns of Supernatural for the rest of your life!"

Tim had to laugh at that. He glanced at her, and he shook his head. "I'm not going spend the rest of my life on a couch, Steph, and even if I did, I wouldn't spend it watching _Supernatural_."

She smiled at him, and she bumped her shoulders against his. "Yeah, I pegged you as a Doctor Who guy from the start."

Tim looked at her, and he began to laugh, genuinely, and she grinned up at him with a vividness that startled him. "That was good deduction," he said, smiling back at her. He looked down, and for once the laughter was happy and his, and he did not hear any wicked echo of it.

"Well I'm a good detective!" She grinned, and glanced at the computer. "Want some help?"

He opened his mouth, almost saying, _Barbara is helping_. But he decided not to. He closed his mouth, lost for a moment. There was a silence in his head that was welcomed, and he felt very glad that she was there. She was keeping the monsters away, just like Dick, and Alfred, and Barbara did.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I'm looking for any information on the Scarab."

"Okay," she said, rolling up the sleeves of the hoodie he'd given her. It was Jason's. After a few minutes of reading along with him, she looked at him, and she said quietly, "Tim?"

"Mm?"

"Can you…" She'd taken his pen from him, and now she was biting it nervously. "Can you help me find my mom?"

Tim paused his reading, only to stiffen, his eyes flashing to hers. And part of him was itching to say no_. I don't want her to leave me_, he realized.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, of course."

She smiled at him, and he had to look away. He didn't want her to know how scared he was to be alone. _It'll be better this way_, he told himself._ She'll be happier, and she won't be around all this weird stuff._ He had to keep reminding himself over and over, because otherwise he might do something he'd regret.

He found out later that Dick had ordered Arsenal off the Team. Tim understood the decision, and he was quiet when he was told, but inside he felt a peculiar sort of guilt. He remembered blaming Arsenal for Jason's instability on that one mission, and part of him still blamed him. But another part recalled that Roy Harper had broken into Arkham to avenge Tim. And that act outweighed any resentment or wariness.

Tim had taken two days to call Arsenal. He spent those two days lost in his own head, half focused on researching Ted Kord and cautiously poking around for any trace of Crystal Brown. He knew he could probably find her very easily if he just put his effort into it, but the truth was, he was selfish. He was happy when Stephanie was around, and he knew she'd want to go back to her mom. Within reason. It was Tim who was at fault. He was afraid of who he became when he was alone.

School was the worst. It was simultaneously being thrust into a crowd of faceless bodies, and being locking in a tiny, windowless room with nothing but a ghost and a monster to keep him company. He often excused himself early from class because he grew so panicked that he thought he'd throw up right there. It was difficult to pay attention, and more often then not he was caught in a daze, snapping to attention only when someone physically touched him. He made a fool of himself most days, flinching so badly that his teachers had to pull him aside to ask him if he was all right.

Tim was sitting on the grungy bathroom floor, just below a translucent window that distorted all light into shimmery fragments across the reddish brown tile. He watched a spider skitter across the grout, spindly legs stretching to find a place to hide. Tim watched it, and he was reminded of the pit, when he had been so starving he had considered eating a spider, but it had been too far away for him to reach. He shuddered, noon light glaring through the window above, shifting rays blinding him for a few moments before a cloud would muffle them.

Tim pulled out his phone, and he scrolled through his contacts. He pressed his phone to his ear, and he listened as it rung, and rung, and rung, the light fluttering and dispersing and dying and living, as vacillating as a child. Tim was shaky and unsure, wondering what he would say if he picked up. He just didn't know.

"_Robin_?" Roy Harper's voice was confused, and a little irritated. "_Aren't you in school, or something_?"

"Skipping class," Tim admitted, leaning forward and plucking the spider up by a leg, watching it spasm and twitch, legs flailing to grapple onto his fingers. "I heard about what happened."

"_About how I saved your buddies asses, and then they kicked me off their Team_?" He sounded bitter. "_Nice to know you care_."

"You did almost kill them, too," Tim pointed out. He let the spider crawl across his fingers, searching unfamiliar territory cautiously. "It wasn't without warrant."

Arsenal gave a derisive snort. "_Did you call to shit talk me again, because I'm not in the mood_."

"No!" Tim gasped, straightening up, the spider forgotten. He could feel its legs itching at his hand. "I'm sorry, that's not it at all. I just wanted to know if you were okay."

There was a pause, a beat of silence that had Tim biting his lip nervously. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. In that beat of silence another boy entered the bathroom, glanced at Tim, and then went to a urinal. Tim looked back down at the spider trekking warily up his arm.

"_What_?" Arsenal said finally. He sounded confused again.

"I mean, you have a place to stay and stuff, right? You're okay?" Tim felt awkward speaking with another person in the room. The other boy seemed to be ignoring him, though.

"_Yeah…_?" Arsenal sounded distant, and then he barked a laugh. "_Wow, Rob, didn't know you cared_!"

"Of course I care," Tim said softly. The boy washed his hands, throwing a glance Tim's way before leaving. "People like us have to stick together, right?"

Arsenal didn't say anything. There was a stretch of silence, and Tim pulled the spider from his arm, feeling it squirm beneath his fingers, and he felt the urge to squish it, to squeeze it until the it crunched and twitched and died, a sad end to a sad life of sad creature. In the end, Tim let it go, and he watched it scurry into the shadows.

"_Okay_," Arsenal said, "_you win. I'm fine— but what about you? Did you quit the Team_?"

"No," Tim said, closing his eyes. The light was breathing down his neck, and it burned him like acid. "I quit Robin." Part of him was worried about being overheard, but a more dominant, more recently jaded part of him was apathetic.

"_Wait, what_?" Arsenal sounded startled. "_Shit, really? Why? Did Nightwing bench you? He would, that mother_—"

"Roy," Tim cut in quickly. "I quit. Me. No one made the decision for me."

"_Are you kidding?_ _You're just giving that son of a bitch exactly what he wants_!" Roy snarled. "_You can't do that! You've got to fight him at _whatever_ cost! You can't just let what he did to you keep you down, you've got to prove that you can overcome it, because you're _above_ him_!"

"I'm not," Tim said quietly.

"_You're not _**what**?" Arsenal's voice was biting, and Tim flinched, curling into himself on the grimy bathroom floor.

"I'm not above him!" Tim winced at how pitiful and weak his voice sounded. "I don't know what I am, but it's not above him, it's below him, that's how it was and how it always will be, don't _you get it_? He made me become him, and he took everything I thought was mine and threw it in my face to prove that it was never mine in the first place, and I can't be above him, I can't—" Tim clapped his hand over his mouth, stifling a scream.

"_Oh my god_," Arsenal breathed. "_Shit. Rob— I didn't mean_—"

"I'm sorry," Tim gasped, the phone clattering to the floor. He stared at it, his eyes going wide, and his entire body shaking. He was choking on light and acid and bile and words, his heart expanding and retracting and shriveling and filling up with charcoal and ice. His body felt weak, and his nerves were shot and jittery. He took a deep breath. "Oh, no, no, no, I'm sorry, forget I said that, forget—" _But it's true, he made me him, it's all true. _"I'm sorry, I'm— I'm…"

He staggered to his feet, lurching to the sink, and the bile rose in his throat, clawing its way to his tongue. Tim puked, gripping the shiny porcelain with white knuckles, his neck hot and his heart beating hard, and he felt tears stinging his eyes. His back arched, and his throat felt raw, and he heaved, gasping for air as his stomach knotted itself up, clenching tightly. He vomited bile once more, and collapsed, arms hanging above his head, fingers still against the cool sink. He breathed heavily, body quaking, and he pressed his sweaty forehead to the cold porcelain.

He could hear Roy calling his name. _Robin, Robin, Robin_…

Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and he slumped against the sink, laughter bubbling in his chest. Or maybe it was more vomit. Tim didn't know. _God, I'm a mess… Where's Dick?_ And for a moment he was lost. He breathed, and his head lolled, and he giggled a little.

He crawled to his phone, and he picked it up, staring at it with heavily lidded eyes.

"Roy," Tim said, laughter lilting in his voice. He felt light headed and half-gone.

"_Did you just throw up_?" Roy sounded almost panicked. "_What the hell is up with you_?"

"I'm tired," Tim murmured. "I th-think I'm going to sleep now."

"_What_?" Roy gasped. Tim chuckled, his head falling back. He smiled numbly. And then he jumped, grabbing his head with trembling fingers. "_Fuck, no! No, Rob, don't_—"

"Help," Tim gasped, his lips white and trembling.

"_Robin_—!"

The phone slipped from his fingers, and Tim tried to stand, his hoping he could somehow reach the door, but his body swayed, and his knees bucked, and he fell sideways. He was seeing stars before his head even hit the sink, sending a jot of pain through him before he crumpled to the floor, half conscious and numb.

* * *

_wow this took forever_

_i actually reached a hundred pages, but i cut it short because though i know where the end is, it was nowhere in sight. this is seventy five out of the hundred pages this chapter was._

_okay okay, so... i'm not quite sure how this chapter will be received. it's different because they're apart, but... idk they think about each other a lot anyway._

_well! review please! i know it's long. hopefully next chapter will be the last. (pray for it guys)_

_thank you for all the kind reviews! please send more?_


	6. the scars across your heart

**stages of deterioration**

**{the scars across your heart}**

When he woke up, he wanted to scream. He laid, head pounding, throat raw, and he wanted to pinch his eyelids closed and never wake up again. Memories of what had happened resurfaced, and they bubbled like blood from a picked scab. Shame and confusion enveloped him, and he bit his lip raising ever-shaky fingers to his forehead. Where he'd hit it was bandaged, and part of him wondered if he had fallen on purpose to make it all stop.

"Tim…?"

It was dark in the room, and the voice jolted him upright. He peered into the darkness, blinking as his bedside lamp flickered on. He felt undeniable relief when he saw Dick's face floated above his. And then he felt bitter, as came the usual rush of emotions. Tim wasn't angry anymore that Dick hadn't told him about his mission with Aqualad and Artemis. He was just sad.

"Dick," he croaked. His voice was soft, yet uneven. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "I… what…"

"Hey," Dick pressed his hand to Tim's shoulder, leading him slowly back to a laying position. "Hey, it's okay. You were out for a while."

"What…?" Tim's lips were dry, and his tongue was heavy, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

"You were in the bathroom," Dick said slowly. "At school? Do you remember?"

Tim nodded mutely.

"Well, you passed out." Dick shook his head, pressed his hand to Tim's forehead. Tim flushed, feeling as though he was a small child. "You threw up, and then you passed out. You haven't been eating enough."

"I eat," Tim objected. Dick shot him a look. "I just… throw it up… afterward…"

"Tim…"

"I can't help it," Tim murmured, closing his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Dick, I just… I can't keep it down."

"I know." Dick smoothed back Tim's hair, and he leaned back. "Wow, I feel creepy. I'm not making you uncomfortable, right?"

Tim smiled, and coughed a laugh. It almost hurt. "No, this is better," he admitted. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments, a little dizzy. "Who found me?"

"Some kid." Dick shrugged. "I was already on my way. _Arsenal _called me."

Tim winced. "Oh." He glanced away nervously. "What did he say?"

"He… thought you killed yourself," Dick said, looking at his hands. "You should probably call him back in the morning. Wait, why did you call him in the first place?"

Tim sighed, turning onto his side and glowering at the floor. "I was worried, okay?" Dick watched him, and Tim stared back with a dead gaze. "I wanted to see if he was okay. The conversation took a wrong turn, and then… I don't know, it's kind of… fuzzy, but…"

"You don't have to explain anymore," Dick said, raising his hands into the air. "I understand."

"I'm sorry," Tim mumbled, his face half buried in his pillow. He closed his eyes. "Oh, god, I'm so, so, so sorry, Dick, I'm… I'm a mess, wow, I…"

Dick reached over, and Tim sat up, nearly flinging his arms around his shoulders. He buried his face in Dick's shirt, resisting the urge to cry. Warmth spread through him, and he sighed, shaking and sagging, tears in his eyes. _I really needed a hug_, Tim thought, smiling into Dick's shoulder.

"You're like the hottest of messes, Tim," Dick joked, holding him close. He ruffled his hair, and Tim nodded vacantly. "I'm sorry I haven't been around lately. I swear, when this Invasion thing is taken care of, I'm gonna be here all the time, and you're going to hate seeing my face. You'll be totally disgusted with me."

"Heavy on the dis?" Tim offered, leaning back. Dick looked down, and he beamed at him.

"_Oh_ yeah!" Dick grinned, and Tim smiled back. He felt safer with Dick around. Safe from the world, safe from himself. Then Dick looked at Tim, and his eyes grew soft. "It's going to get better."

Tim bit his lip. "You don't know that," he whispered.

"Yeah, I do," Dick said. "Because I know you. This isn't going to rule your life. You'll overcome it."

_You sound like Arsenal_, Tim thought. He didn't say it, though. He was scared to. "What if I don't?" Tim's shoulders were shaking. "What do I do? What…?"

"Then I'm here," Dick said, steadying Tim's shoulders with a gentle hand. "So is Barbara, and Alfred. Stephanie, too."

"Steph." Tim blinked slowly. "Where… where is she…?"

"Sleeping." Dick smiled sheepishly. "It's like, three in the morning."

"What?"

"Yeah."

"Wow…" Tim ran his fingers through his hair, and he sighed. "This sucks."

"You'll be okay." Dick smiled. "It's just a mild concussion."

"Not that."

Dick studied Tim's face, and there was a familiar warmth there mixed with desperation.

"You'll be okay," Dick said steadily.

* * *

It was like having a pint sized shadow that disappeared at random. One moment Damian might be behind him, the next Jason was alone. It was like this for a while, and Jason could never pinpoint the child's schedule. If he had to be honest, he didn't want to. Damian was too stubborn for Jason to deal with, and he had enough trouble dealing with his insecurities without a six year old throwing them in his face.

He had his moments, though.

After training one day, Damian had appeared behind Jason, walking idly behind him as if he knew exactly where he was going. He was abnormally quiet, but Jason wasn't complaining. He preferred Damian quiet. Otherwise the boy was all harsh words and contradicting values. Damian didn't seem to know what he wanted or what he believed. Jason couldn't blame him. He was still only six, even if he didn't act like it often.

"Do you ever actually do the things your mother tells you to?" Jason asked the boy suddenly, turning to face him. The hall was empty, but Jason knew by now it would fill up quickly soon. There were always assassins lurking about, and he had no doubt one of them would come across them. Jason also knew Talia knew that Jason was with Damian more often than not. She just had yet to act on it.

"Yes," Damian said. He looked at Jason with a dull gaze.

"Then why the fuck aren't you… I don't know, training to be the next Bach or something?"

"I have no need." Damian sniffed. He was too quiet today. It was one of those days where Jason looked at him, and he saw more Bruce than Talia. Jason couldn't place his finger on what exactly it was. Maybe the eyes, how they were fixed on Jason's face, but they never seemed to truly see him, or the way he stood with utter confidence, yet was obviously at loss at what to do. "I always finish my lessons early. Also, my musical abilities are a formality. Mother says I need to learn how to be the best, so I am learning to be the best."

"Oh my gosh," Jason said wryly. "We can become a boyband called Bruce's Boyz— with a z by the way, because all tacky boy bands must have the rule of illiteracy— and Dick can sing broadway, and you can play your fiddle or something to give it a folky edge, and I can beatbox— because that's really all I can do— and uh… Tim can play the triangle or something really simple like that."

Damian stared at him for a long moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing. He wrinkled his nose, giving Jason a look of pure disgust. "Tt," he scoffed. "Todd, you do realize that when you speak, the only thing that comes out is white noise, don't you?"

"Yes," Jason replied, "yes I do."

"Then why do you insist on talking?"

"Well," Jason sneered, "why do you insist on following me around all the time, huh?"

Damian shrugged, looking bored and indifferent. "Why do crowds gather when disaster strikes? I enjoy watching the carnage."

"That," Jason said, "is creepy, even for you."

Damian glowered up at him, but it was a weak glare. Jason had a feeling that Damian just didn't have the energy or the emotional stamina to be bothered. It was often that Jason wondered about Damian, and he hated it. He didn't want to think about the child, because he wasn't why he was here, he was just a happenstance, and nothing else. Jason could pretend he never met him. Jason wanted to leave and pretend he'd never met him.

But he couldn't do that. It wasn't possible anymore. It probably wasn't possible ever.

"What's up with you?" Jason asked, peering at the kid intently. Damian merely stared, and Jason elaborated. "I mean, like, you're really quiet today. Not as much of a pest."

"Shut up." Damian glared, but there was nothing behind it. "I don't need to tell you anything."

"Well you _should_," Jason said, his voice exasperated. "I'm great at keeping secrets."

"I doubt that."

"Well, I'm okay at it," Jason sighed. "Look, just tell me what's—"

Damian's eyes flickered for a moment before he cut Jason off. "Deathstroke," he said, as if he was pointing out that there was a spider on the wall.

Jason spun around, swearing softly to himself. He was already half ushering Damian back on instinct when he saw the dark figure walking behind Tigress. Even in the dimly lit hallway, it was hard to mistake him. He was tall, well built, and his pale eyes flashed in the shadows. Dark skin and high cheekbones contoured his calm face, and Jason's stomach knotted up at the sight of him. It was the anxiety of seeing an old teacher, fearing disappointment even after years and years of separation.

And he was angry. His blood was pounding in his ears, and he was running before he could stop himself, flinging himself down the hall. He ran, and he dropped, sliding through Tigress's legs when she moved into a defensive stance. He didn't even bother getting up. He spun onto his hands, kicking up into the air. He felt his feet connecting with Kaldur's armor, and he felt the older boy jolt, but the kick did little else.

Jason knew that would happen, though. So he flipped onto his feet and swung, his fist catching in a gauntlet covered hand. Kaldur was watching him, vague surprise glittering there, and that was satisfying. But not satisfying enough. Jason swung his entire body, is feet catching Kaldur in the head, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs, Jason's flailing and striking, and Kaldur's carefully shielding himself.

He could feel someone yanking at him, likely Tigress, but Jason ignored her. He beat at Kaldur with everything he had, and when he was torn off him, he kept thrashing, eyes wide and wild.

"Traitor," Jason snarled. Kaldur sat up, and there was a thin line of blood dribbling from his lip. He wiped it away slowly, and looked down at his hand in fascination, as if he was astonished that he still _bled_. "_Traitor!_ What the fuck are you doing here?"

Kaldur stood, and Jason felt very small all of a sudden. Kaldur had always made Jason feel like a child. It's not that he meant to, it was just the way he was. He always seemed so much older than he was. Now was no different. He looked at Jason, and he seemed to see right through him, know exactly what Jason was thinking and feeling with a single eerie glance. Jason hated him for that.

He fought against Tigress's arms, but her grip was surprisingly tight, and she had him firmly. "Kaldur?" she asked. She sounded _worried_.

"I am fine," the traitor said. His eyes were on Jason's face, and only Jason's face. Jason gritted his teeth, his blood burning in his veins, and he struggled further.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Jason spat. "I don't _get_ it!"

"You are angry," Kaldur sighed. Jason's eyes snapped wide, and he barked the bitterest laugh he could manage. It taste like dust and dead things. "I cannot blame you for that, but I have no qualms against you. You were dead long before any disagreements began."

"And Artemis was technically retired," Jason said, his voice so dead and so tired, he half wanted to drop right there and scream until he slipped unconscious. "That didn't stop you from killing her."

"A necessary casualty."

"Fuck that!" Jason cried, his voice a rasp. "Fuck you! Fuck _everyone_, I'm so fed up with people and how fucked up they are. I feel like I fell asleep, and when I woke up the entire world became a monster, including me and including you, and I hate it! I hate you! I hate _everything_!"

Jason broke away from Tigress, and he dove at Kaldur again. But Kaldur was too prepared. Jason stumbled back, his ribs aching from where the gauntlet had hit his chest to block him. He went again, dodging Tigress and slipping into a rhythm, kicking and striking fast, but Kaldur knew his steps better than Jason knew his.

"Stop, Jason," Kaldur said, leaning to the side and deflecting one of Jason's punches. And Jason felt his entire body go numb with shock. He looked up at Kaldur, and he took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn't scream.

"You know my name?" Jason breathed, feeling dizzy. "How the hell do you know my name?"

Kaldur studied him for a few moments, and his eyes were like frosty green pools. "I was at your funeral," he said, his voice somber. Almost regretful.

"No," Jason said. He felt panic in his bones. "No, shut up, no."

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," Kaldur said softly. Jason looked up at him, and he smiled bitterly.

"Me too," he said.

Then he punched Kaldur so hard, his arm hurt afterward. Kaldur recovered quickly, and he sighed, blocking another punch. And then he backhanded Jason, and the shock of it send Jason stumbling. It wasn't enough to stop him though. In fact, it only fueled him. Jason came back at Kaldur ten fold, kicking and punching, wild and unthinking. This was how Jason had fought on the streets, he recalled. Completely relying on instinct.

"Stop this, Jason," Kaldur warned. Jason didn't listen. He kept fighting. And Kaldur's knuckles connected with his cheek, his gauntlet slicing through his skin. Otherwise the blow might have been lighter. This went on until Kaldur sent a wild hit, and the gauntlet crashed into Jason's nose.

Jason fell onto his back, gasping softly as blood streamed from his nostrils and into his mouth. He swallowed it, the acrid taste making him wrinkle his nose, and he moved to sit up. Tigress's knee slammed into his chest, pinning him to the ground, and he coughed blood into the air.

"Stay down," Tigress hissed, her voice sounding urgent— maybe even startled. Jason stared at her, and for a moment she seemed almost familiar. But Jason decided he hated her too, just by default. "Just _stay down_."

Jason spat blood in her face.

Something flashed, and Tigress's eyes went wide behind her mask. Jason blinked at the gleam of the blade pressing to her neck.

"Get off him," Damian ordered. His voice was sharp and high, sounding like a bird's twitter. "Now. Or else you will be finding it very difficult to speak."

Tigress held up her arms, standing up and stepping back. The release of pressure was a welcome relief. Jason sat up, spitting blood, and his face was throbbing. His nose ached, and he realized it was broken. Again. Was it ever not broken? Jason had never gotten it fixed the first time he'd broken it, and the second time he'd broken it he'd just pretended it hadn't been broken to avoid the process of breaking it _again _in order to reset it.

"Well," Deathstroke said in his usual smooth, cool tone. "That was very interesting."

"Fuck you, too," Jason said. He sounded as though his mouth was full of cotton. It felt like it. He pressed his hand to his nose to staunch the blood flow. It was thick and wet and sticky and warm, and he winced, his nose too sensitive to touch. He then glanced at Damian, and there was a rush of newfound affection for the boy.

Damian pointed the blade, nothing but a knife he probably had had hidden in his boot, or up his sleeve, and he raised his head high. "We are leaving," he stated. "Todd won't be bothering you again." He tilted his head.

"I'm certain that is true," Kaldur said, nursing his own bloody lip. He seemed to be in much better condition, and Jason was not surprised. Atlanteans had abnormally thick skin, and Jason had been smashed in the face with a gauntlet multiple times. "I will be taking my leave as well."

Jason's ears were buzzing, and there was blood running _down_ and _down_ and _**down**_, dripping from his nose, sliding against his lips and dribbling down his chin. It stained his navy tee shirt black, and the world tasted like bitter metal and it was warm and sticky and repulsive. He glowered as best he could, but his vision was bleary, and he spat blood at Kaldur's feet.

"I hope you burn in hell," Jason hissed, blood and spittle flying from his mouth. "I hope you burn and burn and burn!"

Kaldur'ahm studied him with his eerie green eyes. Then he brushed past him, head high, and that was that. Jason heaved, breathing in blood and stale air, and Deathstroke passed as well, his one dark eye never leaving Jason's beaten face. As he moved, he leaned in close and whispered, "Enjoy your little miracle, Robin. And be wary of Ra's al Ghul. When he cracks your secret, I doubt you'll be as safe and secure as you are now." Jason flipped him off in response, his mouth too filled with blood to speak.

That left Tigress, who stood stolidly for a few moments, watching them from behind her stupid mask. Jason yearned to tear it off and punch her, but he knew he was weakened to the bone. He was not fighting anyone else today. So instead he glowered at her, blood flowing freely from his nose, and her eyes narrowed. They were lidded heavily, and Jason thought she looked tired, and angry, and he hated her for no reason other than her affiliation with Aqualad.

Then she moved past him as well, her body rigid. Jason's eyes followed her, and they hated. He hoped she could feel his hate. He hoped they all knew how much he hated them, felt his hatred in their bones, felt his anger and pain and disgust. He wanted them to feel it, and he wanted it to bite deep.

"Todd," Damian said, rounding on him. The knife's tip was pressed against Jason's belly, but Jason was swaying, blinking rapidly. The buzzing was getting worse. "You fool. You imbecile, you _weakling_!"

_Does nothing please you? _"Shut up," he mumbled, blood spraying across the child's forehead. He didn't seem to mind.

"You had no chance of winning that fight!" Damian kicked him in the shin, and Jason choked on his blood, pain shooting up his leg. He fell to one knee, gasping and coughing up diluted red spit. _Demon spawn_, Jason thought, gripping his chest. _Bastard_. "You are a shame to my father, and you should never have been chosen by him!" Damian kicked him again, in the chest, and Jason fell back. He did not cry out, but instead gasped and gurgled through the blood. More blood was still dripping from his nose. Jason laid on his back in the middle of the hallway, and he breathed raggedly. Damian's foot found Jason's side, and this time Jason grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as he spat blood into the air, and it splattered back down against his cheeks.

"Why _you_?" Damian asked, voice high and disgusted and beguiled. "Why would he want someone so _pathetic_ as _you_?"

Jason let him kick him again, and again, and again. By the seventh time, Damian seemed to have calmed, and he stood over Jason's body silently. Jason laid on his side, limp and dizzy and bleeding. His mind was not on the angry child, but on Artemis. He thought about the girl, who had always been a coarse, fiery person— a lively and hot-tempered friend, who understood Jason better than the others. She had always been over the manor by the time Jason had started at Gotham Academy, and so she grew to be as familiar a sight as the old grandfather clock in the hall. Her face was hazy to him. She had been pretty. A pretty, slim and sinewy girl with dark eyes so sharp and fierce, she always seemed to think she knew exactly what was what. As if she could say the sky was red, and she expected the world to believe her. Jason couldn't remember the exact color of her eyes. Her hair had been yellow and long. He couldn't recall how her voice sounded, but he remembered her words always had a bite, and her smiles could range from as sincere as the sun was bright, or as poisonous as a snake.

She'd liked him. She never judged him, not when he made mistakes, not when he was too brazen. She saw him, a downtrodden boy scooped up from the bowels of Crime Alley, and she shrugged, because they were the same. Jason had appreciated her presence almost as much as Dick's. She was a needed relief— someone accepted him. That knowledge had kept him content when Dick couldn't cajole the criticism on his own.

He awoke with a sharp _slap_, a startling sting across his cheek. He blinked rapidly his mind abuzz and glazed over. He felt tears on his cheeks, mingling with half-dried blood crusted against his skin. He breathed, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood and the salty sting of tears. He realized he was sitting on his bed, his lumpy cot, and he shuddered eyes moving dazedly around his room. How had he gotten here?

Another slap, this one on the other cheek, had him in a fit of shakes. _Tim_, he thought wildly, his heart hammering in his chest. _Where's Tim? Tim should be here, he's always here to fix things, where is he_?

"Wake up!" a sharp, smooth voice commanded. It sounded like honey and silk, and it cut him as deep as serrated steel. "What is it? What is _wrong_?"

The shadows seemed to shift, and the face above him became clearer. He was shaking, and he tried to stop, but the quaking only got worse. He thought he could hear his brain rattling in his skull.

"Talia?" he croaked. His voice was hoarse. His lip began to tremble, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle his sob. Talia al Ghul watched him icily, and then she bent down. He stared at her with wide, fearful eyes, and the shaking wouldn't stop, and he could hear his own voice in muted whimpers. She watched him with her cold black eyes, and he thought she might slap him again, so he slid his hands up to his eyes to shield them. "Please," he whispered, his voice taut. "Please, no…"

She grabbed him by the wrist. He immediately twisted away, clamping his hand over his mouth again to muffle a scream. He looked at her, and all he felt was fear, and it glistened in his eyes and fell against bloody cheeks, streaming in a steady current. He shook his head, and he pulled back, but she pulled harder, and suddenly he was on his feet.

"No," he gasped, his fingers tangling in his hair. "No, no, let go, let go…" She dragged him into the hall, and he squirmed, eyes flashing. He shuddered, and he shouted, and he muffled wordless screams of terror. _Tim_, Jason thought. He might have said it out loud. _Dick, Bruce! Help, god, oh god, help, oh god—!_ He might have shouted Artemis's name, but she was dead, and even in his state he knew that to be true.

She slapped him again, and he didn't open his mouth after that. He merely fell in time with her steps, letting her pull him like a limp doll. He cried silently, swaying like a leaf in the wind. His head felt as though it would split open. He winced as they entered a bathroom, the lights too bright for him, and he flinched away from her as she slipped her hands under his arms. She caught him anyway, and she had him like he was a toddler, plopping him down on the granite countertop that held the row of pristine looking sinks. The mirrors reflected Talia's face, sharp and smooth and indistinct.

Jason saw his own face. He saw a bloody mess and tears. He turned back to face Talia, and he was taller than her sitting upon the counter. She didn't seem to care. She flicked on a faucet beside Jason, and set a towel under it. Jason stared at it, confused, and then she caught his chin in her nimble fingers, forcing him to look at her.

"What…" Jason swallowed thickly. "What did I-I… what di—did I do?"

"You attacked Kaldur'ahm," Talia said sharply. She looked as if she wanted to slap him again. "You little fool. Black Manta wanted your hands for that."

Jason was confused. For a moment, he forgot everything. It was almost a relief. "Why would I attack Aqualad?" he croaked, eyes wide. "Why am I…?" He sucked in a breath as the truth hit him hard, shattering his heart. "Oh. Oh…"

"Yes," Talia sniffed. "_Oh_." She raised her fingers to his nose, and he yelped, yanking his body back. His head smashed against the mirror behind him, and he clapped his hands over his mouth, moaning softly. She grabbed his chin again, and gingerly pressed her fingers against his nose. Pain shot through his head, and he squirmed. "Your nose is broken."

"Yeah," he said, his voice thin with pain. "I _figured_!" Her fingers lingered, and he gritted his teeth. Even that was painful. "Let go."

"It's been broken twice before," Talia said absently, running her fingertips across the broken appendage. "You never treated it properly. It never healed correctly."

Jason shifted uncomfortably. It was true. He remembered getting into a fist fight when he'd been nine, and that had left his nose cracked. Then again, when he was thirteen, he'd fought _Bane_. It had been stupid, but he had been Robin, young and stupid and golden, and nothing could have hurt him then, not even the drug induced strength of an opponent.

He winced, shuffling back as she let go of him to wring out the towel. He glanced at the door, and tried to take deep breaths, prayed he could calm down long enough to understand what was happening. He shook his head as she moved the cloth toward his face.

"No," he mumbled, turning his face away. She grabbed his chin once more, holding his head still. "No!"

"Shh," she hissed, gingerly pressing the warm cloth to his cheek. Jason realized he was still crying only then, and he closed his eyes. She scrubbed at the blood, and his skin felt raw and everything ached. Her fingers dug into his skin, and he took another deep breath, trying to remind himself that he was okay, that he would be okay. It was hard though. "You are lucky Kaldur'ahm is not interested in harming you."

"Lucky," Jason repeated distantly.

"Yes." Talia forced his face into a tilt in order to press the cloth to a stubborn patch of blood. "_Lucky_. Kaldur'ahm believes you are a good hostage. That Dick Grayson would gladly bleed the world dry if it meant your safe return. Do you believe this, Jason?"

"No," Jason said softly. He let her turn his head from side to side, and he became used to the scrubbing motion of her fingers, nimble and careful and as gentle as she could be. "He's always been Batman's son in that. The mission comes first. If the mission was to rescue me, then maybe, but it's not. It never is."

Talia's eyes softened. Jason was surprised to see it. She scraped away the dry blood, ignoring how he winced, and he watched her with widening eyes. He didn't understand why she was doing this. "It is not why we kept you," Talia admitted.

"Really?" Jason was curious. "Then why?"

Talia smiled, and Jason looked away. It was a cruel smile. He hated the look of it. "A willing son of the Bat, begging at our doorstep?" Talia's fingers grazed his cheek, delicately tracing his jaw. Her fingertips dragged themselves all the way to his chin, and she lifted his head with the dainty point of her finger. "Oh, Jason, how could we turn you away?"

"I dunno," Jason mumbled. "What was Aquala— Kaldur, I mean. What was he doing here?"

"Business." Talia shrugged her bony shoulders. "The Light has need of him."

"The Light," Jason said, his eyes narrowing. "Kaldur." Even knowing that he killed Artemis, even knowing that he was a traitor, Jason could not believe it. Aqualad had been patient with Jason. He'd respected him when Jason had never returned the favor. Jason hated that now as he hated it then. "I want to kill him."

Her smile widened, and she looked as though she was about to devour him whole. "Do you?" she asked, amused.

"He killed my friend," Jason hissed, closing his eyes as she rubbed the cloth against his forehead.

"I'm aware."

"He should die too!" Jason's eyes snapped open. Talia watched him, studied him, and he wanted to cry some more. "It's not fair! How could he? Artemis was his friend too, just as much as she was mine, maybe even _more_! I don't get it! How could anyone disregard that kind of friendship? How could he stop feeling long enough to do it? How could he?"

"Sometimes," Talia said, stroking his newly cleaned cheek. "One must become an empty shell in order to gain what we need. It's oft that our emotions cloud our judgment. Kaldur'ahm learned this. I learned it. So should you."

_I spent so long trying to feel_, Jason thought, staring at Talia in bewilderment. _If I could turn them off again, I would_. "I can't," Jason said. "I can't be like you. I'm not hollow. I'm _not_."

"Learn." Talia set aside the cloth, and she smiled again, this time it was very sweet and gently. Warm. Jason slumped, comforted by the sight of it. "Jason, you want to kill, but you cannot bear the consequences it will have on your heart. I understand. Let me teach you to withhold the guilt. To bury your thoughts."

"You want to… teach me?" _Why am I so scared?_ Jason glanced down at his hands, and found that they were shaking_. Isn't this what I wanted?_ "I… why?"

She cupped his cheek, and he sighed. He knew what she was doing. The sweetness of being wanted was embittered by the knowledge that he was being used. "You should be allowed to grant vengeance, Jason," she said. "The Shadows will give you that."

_She did put the idea in Damian's head_, Jason thought. He wasn't surprised. _She's a lover, a mother, and a snake_. "The Shadows," Jason said, his voice brisk, "have given me nothing but bad memories and a glorified prison."

"You are no prisoner, Jason."

"Then I can leave?" Jason's eyebrows shot up, and her face darkened. "Right now, if I asked, I could leave?"

She seemed to be weighing her words in her head. "My father—" she started.

"Your father hasn't figured it out, and it's not likely he will any time soon," Jason hissed. "I'm a freak. I'm a dead freak, and I'm not welcome here anymore than I'm welcome at home."

"You _are_ welcome here," Talia insisted. Jason wanted to believe her. He really, really did. "You are an anomaly. You're a brilliant boy, brilliant and burdened. You won't be free of it until the man who murdered you is dead."

_Even then I won't be free of him_. The Joker was a frequent visitor in Jason's nightmares, but as of late, Tim haunted Jason just as often. Not in the same way. The Joker plagued Jason like a thousand spiders burrowing into his skin all at once. Tim was a whimpering child, bloody and stuck and slipping away slowly, an arms length but out of reach.

"You'll help me kill the Joker," Jason whispered.

"I'll help you with managing yourself." Talia ran her fingers through his hair. Jason felt the need to lean into her touch, and he was scared of her for that. She was charming, and she was dangerous, and she knew just how weak he was. "Let me be your keeper, Jason."

"Like what?" Jason grimaced. "My _mom_, or something?"

"If that is what you would like." Her expression was pleasant, but unreadable.

"I have a mom," Jason said. _Had_.

"I have a son." Talia tilted her head. "And I'd love him no less if you decided to stay."

"He hates me." Jason glared at her. He jerked his head back. "All he knows how to do is hate and scream and beat things. That's not a life for a kid, Talia."

"You spend enough time with him," she said, sounding bitter and irritated. "If you will not stay away from him, why don't you teach him what _wisdom_ you gained from my beloved? If you can."

Jason rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was thinking not of Damian, but of Kaldur. Something in him hurt. The betrayal had cut far too deep. In Jason's head, he could see Tim's wide smile, hear his tortured little laugh. He wanted to scream.

"I lied," Jason announced. "I don't want Kaldur to die."

Talia's dark eyebrow quirked. "No?"

"No," Jason said. "I want him to pay."

That made her smile wickedly. "Now," she said, taking his hands. "That can be arranged."

He knew what she was thinking. He had thought of it himself. "Tigress has no part of this," Jason said firmly. "Killing her would start a blood feud."

"Death?" Talia shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Oh, Jason, there are other ways—"

"She has nothing to do with it," Jason spat. "I don't want anyone else hurt by this."

Talia reached forward, and Jason let her smooth back his hair. He wondered if she was ever this affectionate with Damian, but part of him sort of doubted it. "You are sweet, Jason," she sighed, smiling sadly. "A sweet little fool. But I will train you. Make no mistake, I will train you."

"No unnecessary deaths," he said as she bandaged his broken nose. "The only person I want to die is the Joker. He's the only one who deserves it."

"For what he did to you," Talia murmured. "It's an apt fate."

"For me," Jason said slowly. "And for Tim."

Talia watched him, and she smiled. She said nothing more.

* * *

He watched her from afar, too nervous to stop her. She had gone from pushups to pull-ups to boxing, and Tim still couldn't work up the courage. It had been half an hour since he'd appeared in the doorway. He was just too uncertain. She finally seemed to have had enough of his staring, because she stopped and looked at him curiously.

Stephanie wouldn't be living with them for much longer. Tim had found her mother, who was willing to come back to Gotham for her daughter. Dick had met with Crystal Brown earlier in the week, and an agreement had come along. Crystal would go into rehab, and Stephanie would live with her in an apartment paid for by Bruce Wayne. Stephanie would receive a scholarship to Gotham Academy, effective come autumn.

"What?" Stephanie asked, blowing a hair from her eyes. Tim bit his lip and looked away. "_What?_"

"Sorry." He could feel himself flushing. "I… I just wanted to know if you wanted to come somewhere. With me. I mean—"

"A date?" Stephanie looked amused, and Tim wanted to punch himself.

"No!" he blurted. "No, no, not… I mean, it's… a nice thought, but no, no, I mean… I'm meeting someone, and I don't…"

She was laughing so hard, he thought she might burst a lung. He watched her laugh, and he wanted to crawl away and never ever show his face again. "You don't want to go alone," Stephanie laughed, wiping her forehead with a towel. "Do you really think I'd say no? Just let me take a quick shower, kay?"

"Okay." Tim was looking down, frowning to himself. Stephanie walked past him, and then she paused, turning to face him with curious eyes.

"Tim?" she asked, sounding small and worried. He looked up at her, and he shuffled back, rubbing his knuckles anxiously.

"Yeah…?"

She watched him for a few moments, eyes wide and searching. Then she clapped him on the shoulder, bolting past him fast. "See you in a bit!" she called back, as if she'd completely forgotten what she wanted to say. Tim stood in the gym, his body rejecting the sight of it. He didn't want to train. He _didn't._

He left the room quickly. He had good memories of training— with Bruce, with Dick, with Barbara. _With Jason too_. Tim didn't want to handle that right now. He didn't want the temptation. He didn't want to train again, because he didn't want to be Robin again. It was the truth. Wasn't it? Part of him was filled with doubt, but he knew that he was too… unstable to be on the field. So he researched and pretended that kept him content.

He could train with Steph if he wanted to. She was good. Not great, but she was adequate enough. She probably could beat him now, if he went up against her. But he wouldn't fight her. He was scared, to be honest, scared and sad and beyond the point of crazed. He knew this. He knew he needed help.

Dick sent him to Black Canary after the school incident. It had been frightening, at best, and it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. The fact that he didn't want to talk about it had been disregarded because of his lack of stability, and Tim wanted to scream. He told her as much.

"_Tim_," Dinah had said, leaning forward slightly. He'd pulled back far, staring at her with big, terror-filled eyes. "_All Nightwing wants is to help you. All _we_ want is to help you. It's okay that you don't want to talk, so maybe for right now you can just listen_?"

Tim's heart had sunk away into the recesses of his hollow chest, and he'd stared at her so blankly, he thought he might completely let go of any semblance of emotion. And so she spoke, her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes soft and pleading.

"_It's okay to feel like you're weak_," she had said. Tim had looked down. "_It's okay to feel inadequate. Everyone is here for you, and everyone is willing to help you through this. You don't have to feel alone. Even if you don't want to talk about what happened, you shouldn't push your friends away_."

"_I'm not_," Tim had said. Black Canary gave him a look, and he felt disconcerted and guilty. "_I love the Team, really, I do, but… I just… I can't_."

Black Canary had a face of understanding. Tim knew her way, knew that she used how trustworthy she appeared to be to milk the truth out of them. Tim almost didn't care. Dinah had nodded, her eyes urging him to go on. But Tim didn't want to. He wanted to curl up and never speak again. Everyone would be better off that way.

"_Why can't you, Tim_?"

He took a deep, heaving breath, and he could feel himself shaking. The world was crushing, crashing, a cluster of burn and brush and beatings, and he had closed his eyes and shook. When he had felt her take his trembling hands in his own, his eyes had snapped open.

"_Don't touch me_!" he'd snarled, tearing his hands from her. She had bolted up straight, and she looked at him with pity and wariness. His quaking only grew worse as he pressed his hands to his mouth, his eyes growing as wide and white as eggs. "_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so, so sorry, I didn't mean it, honest, I didn't_—"

Dinah had held up a hand, and Tim slumped and shook and sighed. "_It's fine_," Black Canary had said gently. "_Do you lose your temper often_?"

Tim had managed a shrug, biting his lip. "_I_…" he had felt like he was choking. "_I don't know, sometimes. I can't stay angry at Steph and A-Alfred, though, so it never… I never_…"

She had had a sweet smile, and he didn't like it at all. It made him feel ashamed and stupid and guilty. "_Steph and Alfred_," Dinah had repeated. "_Do you let them touch you_?"

Tim had hated talking about it. He stared at Black Canary blankly for a few moments, and Dinah only stared back, urging him to speak. Tim remembered feeling empty and spiteful and full. Empty of life and full of hate. And so he had spoken.

"_Alfred makes sure everything is healing_," Tim had said begrudgingly. "_He has to touch me, and I know he'd never hurt me, so I don't… care very much_." He had chosen his words very carefully. "_Stephanie… I don't… know, I mean… yeah, I guess I let her touch me. She's nice_." _She's like Jason, but nicer, and maybe that's why I don't want her to leave_. It had made Tim very sad and bitter to think of Jason.

"_I heard she stole a Robin costume_." Dinah had tilted her head curiously. "_Did that make you angry at her?_"

Tim was still hurt by that incident. He still considered it a betrayal, and some part of him had trouble forgiving Stephanie for it. But his need to have a constant companion outweighed that anger. "_Well… yes_…"

"_And did you snap at her_?"

Tim had swallowed nervously. "_No_," he'd said. "_No, I don't… snap at her_."

"_Are you scared you'll snap at the Team_?" Dinah's eyes had seemed to glow with the revelation. "_You don't want to hurt them. You don't want to hurt them, or the image they have of you. You understand that they won't judge, don't you_?"

Tim had not been able to answer. He'd stared at her with wide eyes, fear and shock and silence consuming him. He didn't say anything more to Black Canary, nor did he speak for the rest of the day.

"Yo, Boy Wonder!" Stephanie snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he gasped, jumping away from her. She looked at him, and she looked a little guilty. "Sorry. You still wanna go?"

"Yeah," Tim said, blinking slowly. "Yeah, of course. Let's go."

Stephanie's hair was still wet, so she braided back with quick, nimble fingers. Tim tucked on his sunglasses, and Stephanie watched him curiously, never questioning him. Tim had told Alfred earlier in the day where he planned on going, and Alfred had told him that he suggested Stephanie go with him. Tim didn't mind, because he didn't want to be alone anyway.

Stephanie was babbling, as she usually did when he was lost in his thoughts. He liked hearing her voice, because it was very much soft, senseless noise. They decided to take a bus downtown (Tim had argued against Alfred, and now he regretted it), and Tim shuffled very close to Stephanie's side. He didn't like the way people looked at them, and so he stared straight ahead, clutching his hands tightly to stop their trembling. Stephanie seemed to see his discomfort, and she squeezed his hands, smiling at him gently.

"First time going out since the thing?" Steph asked, her shoulders bump against his. He nodded mutely. "Don't worry, Tim. I'll protect you." Her voice was teasing, but Tim found himself doubting he'd be able to protect himself in this state. It could be true.

"Don't call me Tim while we're here," he whispered to her. "Call me anything, just not my name."

"Why?" Steph's eyes widened. "Wait, are we meeting one of your little Ju— uh, I league buddies?"

"Yeah," Tim said, "so don't say my name."

"Sure, yeah." Stephanie grinned at him. "So… what should I call you? Rob—"

"No." Tim took a deep, sharp breath. "No, definitely not. Uh… T. You can call me T."

"T."

"Yeah."

"T for… Tall?" Stephanie tilted her head. "Ticklish?" She stuck dancing fingers beneath his chin, and he twisted away from her, giving a soft laugh. "Timid?"

"Oh, please," he murmured, flushing. "I'm not that shy."

"Totally adorable?" she laughed, bopping him on the nose.

"Oh my god," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Steph, stop."

"Oh, oh!" she gasped, clapping her hands together. "T for tech! 'Cause you're so good at technical stuff!"

"Okay, Steph," Tim said, smiling a little to himself. His hands had stopped shaking. "Whatever helps you remember."

"T for tired," Stephanie whispered. "As in, you should probably sleep when we get home, 'cause you look like you're about to pass out."

_Home_, Tim thought, feeling warm. _She thinks of the manor as home_. "Not necessary," he said.

"Totally necessary!" Steph gave him a scowl, and he gave her a glare. "Do you need me to stay in the room again? I can, you know. You don't need to be brave all the time, it's okay to ask."

_No. Because soon you won't be around for me to ask, and I'm already too dependent on you, don't you see?_ "Don't be stupid," he mumbled, glowering at the scummy floor of the bus. "I can sleep fine on my own."

"You're the stupid one," Stephanie said, her scowl deepening. She bowed her head and made her voice unnaturally deep and sort of rigid. "Oooh, I'm Tim Drake, I can't sleep unless someone I like is there with me, but I don't like people watching me, oh woe! My dilemma!"

"Steph," Tim groaned as she burst into a fit of giggles.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not trying to make fun of you. You're just frustrating! I don't mind staying with you until you fall asleep. You shouldn't have to deal with nightmares."

"I don't need you to," Tim said, his tone insistent. "I'm fine, Stephanie, really."

She watched him with narrowed eyes, saying nothing more on the topic. He could tell she wasn't happy though. If Stephanie could have it her way, she'd camp on Tim's floor half the time. But Alfred didn't like her staying in Tim's room, so after Tim fell asleep she went back to her guest room. He had yet to show her his star lamp, but sometimes she would play with it, spinning it around and around without realizing its purpose.

Eventually she went to babbling again, and he half-listened, half stared at the seat in front of him vacantly. "— and like, I'm so behind, I probably won't even be in the grade I'm supposed to, because I missed so much, you know? We probably won't even see each other. We need to make sure we see each other, okay?"

Tim blinked down at her, startled as he rejoined the world of the living. "Huh?"

"School," Stephanie said, slumping back. "We need to make sure we still see each other, even though we're in different grades."

"All the grades have lunch together," Tim said, hoping to sate her worries. "You can sit with me then, if you want."

"Oh, cool!" She beamed up at him, rocking in her seat. She was anxious, and he knew it. She wanted off the bus just as much as he did, she just showed it more. "Won't your lunch buddies mind?"

Tim shrugged. "No, they won't care." Tam Fox would be happy to have another new face. Only recently had Cullen and Harper Row joined their table, and though Tim hadn't spoken much, it seemed neither sibling minded. Cullen was chatty and amiable enough for them all, while his sister was sharp and cynical and witty. Tam talked to them a lot, but Tim ended up picking at his food rather then speak.

"Good," Stephanie said. "That's good."

The bus finally rolled to a stop at their destination, and Tim and Stephanie were already at their feet, fighting to get to the front of the bus quickly. Tim hated the feeling of bodies pressing up against him, and he had to take Stephanie's hand to steady himself when they got on the sidewalk. Tim wished had allowed Alfred to take them, but Tim didn't want to risk it. This was Roy Harper. Shrewd and suspicious Roy Harper.

The mall was packed with kids and adults alike. Teenagers were hanging around carts, children were throwing pennies into a fountain, and Tim was scanning them all for a familiar face. He found it wearing a scowl, blue eyes on Tim from opposite wall, and Tim started toward him, beckoning Stephanie to follow.

Roy was not alone either. He had four other kids with him, all of whom Tim already knew well from research. Tye Longshadow, Jaime's missing friend, Virgil Hawkins, a missing boy whose family had refused to give up searching for him, Eduardo Dorado Jr., son of the man who helped developed zeta technology, and Asami Koizumi, a very lost Japanese girl who may or may not have a home to go back to.

Tim stopped in front of Arsenal, and bit his lip when he was looked up and down by sharp blue eyes. Roy met Tim's gaze as though the glasses were not there. As if Roy could see Tim, and he knew everything.

"You're alive," Roy said.

"Obviously," Tim replied. He didn't dare look at Stephanie, even though he could feel her staring at him. "Sorry I scared you."

Roy studied Tim's face for a few moments, and then he looked at Stephanie. "Who are you?" he asked abruptly. She jumped.

"U-uh…" Steph glanced at Tim, and he nodded gently. "Stephanie. I…" She glanced between the four Runaways. "I remember you four. From being kidnapped by the Reach."

Their eyes widened considerably, and Eduardo swore softly in Spanish. Tye and Virgil exchanged looks, and Asami simply blinked, her mouth opening and closing. Virgil was the one who nodded. "Yeah, I remember you," he said, smiling down at her gently. "You were one of the new ones."

"Yeah!" Stephanie's eyes were very bright, and Tim almost wanted to take her by the shoulder and shake her. It was one of those times when she was too bright to be real.

"Lucky," Eduardo spat. Tye nodded, folding his arms across his chest and frowning.

"Okay, well since you guys seem to know each other," Roy said, offhandedly waving his hand. "I'm going to steal Robin, so you can steal her."

"I'm not—!" Tim gasped. Roy rolled his eyes, clapping his hand over Tim's mouth.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I just don't know what else to call you." Roy glanced at Virgil. "You cool with kidnapping her for a few minutes?"

"As long as she's cool with it." Virgil shrugged, and he watched Stephanie curiously. Stephanie bit her lip worriedly, and she looked at Tim for instruction. When he nodded, she smiled, and took Virgil by the arm.

"Yeah, totally!" She threw one last concerned glance over her shoulder before leading Virgil away. "I'm Steph, but you know that already, right? Are you guys new to Gotham? Oh, wait, your names! What are your names?"

Tim had a feeling he was stuck with Roy for a while.

Roy let his hand fall to his side after Stephanie and the others left. Arsenal watched him with an inscrutable expression, and Tim could only stare back, wide eyed and guilty. He hadn't meant to scare Roy, it had just been misfortune. Terrible, terrible misfortune.

"I'm really sorry," Tim blurted. Roy cocked an eyebrow. "For freaking out. On the phone. It was horrible, and I didn't mean to put you through that, it just happened, and I couldn't control it. Sometimes, I…" _I just don't know who I am anymore_.

"Do you want me to hit you?" Roy folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing at Tim. "Because I will, and you know it."

Tim felt desperate. He didn't know how to make this better, and it was gnawing at him from the inside out. He took a deep breath, and he shook his head. "I just wanted you to know that I didn't mean to scare you." Tim was wringing his hands nervously. "It really wasn't… my intention, I just… I just wanted to know if you were okay, and I don't even know what happened. Something in me… snapped. It wasn't really me."

"Look, I get it," Roy sighed, wrinkling nose a little in irritation. "I definitely get it. What happened was shitty, but it happened, and you can't deal with it. I can't deal with my issues either sometimes, to be honest."

"You thought I…" Tim took a deep breath, his mind hazy and rattling. He didn't want to think about it, but he had to. "Did you really think I killed myself?"

"Um," Arsenal scoffed, "_yeah_!" He looked sort of uncomfortable now, his eyes flashing away from Tim's face. "The way you sounded? And then you fell, and how was I supposed to know what happened? I heard a crash, and you screamed, and then you were gasping, and then you were quiet, and you weren't _answering_. What the hell was I supposed to think?"

"I…" Tim's tongue felt heavy, and his throat felt dry and raw. He looked down at his hands, and saw them trembling. "I don't know. I'm so sorry."

Arsenal groaned, rubbing the red stubble that grew across his scalp. "Shit," he mumbled. "Don't… ugh, look, I'm not good at this stuff. I have my own bullshit."

"I know." Tim felt horrible about the entire thing. All he'd wanted was to see if Roy was okay, and it had ended up being a horror-fest. That was how things went with Tim, it seemed. Whenever he tried to help, he made things so much worse for himself and everyone around him.

"But it's okay, you know," Roy continued, as if Tim hadn't talked. "Like, I can't judge you, or anything. Your bullshit is your bullshit, and you know what? You're allowed to have bullshit. Don't let people tell you that you _need_ to get better, like you've come down with the fucking flu. You got hurt bad, Rob. You don't get better from shit like this, and no one cares. They don't get it because they can't. People like Black Canary? _Nightwing_?" Arsenal gave a sharp, scornful laugh. "How could they possibly know what people like us are feeling?"

"I…" Tim bit his lip harder, tears prickling his eyes. He blinked them back. "I don't know, Roy. When… I mean, Jason… when he was here…" Tim hated talking about Jason. But only because it hurt. "I don't know. He was getting better. He did get better. He went from practically brain dead to a normally functioning human being."

"But what happened to him never went away," Roy said darkly. "You know it. I know it. Shit happens, and it leaves scars. You and me and… Jason?" Tim's eyes widened, and he smacked his head with the heel of his palm for his slip up. Roy grinned broadly, as if he'd been told the most delicious secret in the world. "We'll never get rid of them. All we can do is not let what happened destroy us."

Tim nodded numbly, his body shuddering. Roy seemed to see it, and he pressed a hand to Tim's shoulder. At first, Tim's instinct was to jerk away, to run and run and run. But Roy seemed safe, and his eyes were a narrowed mixture of sadness and anger and something shattered. Tim trusted him, even though he knew he probably shouldn't.

"I'm sorry," Tim mumbled again. "I… I mean—"

"Don't." Roy's fingers dug deep into Tim's shoulder. "Don't be sorry for what happened to you. Like, why the fuck should we be sorry? We did nothing wrong! We've been fucked with, and everything that we do is a result of that. _We_ shouldn't have to be sorry!"

Tim bit back a plea for him to lower his voice. He could only nod, his entire body trembling. Roy didn't seem to care, or mind, and he only seemed to look determined. Tim had no idea what the determination was for. It almost scared him. But he ended up smiling, a small, empty smile that seemed to capture everything he felt and nothing at all.

"Thanks, Roy," he said quietly.

Roy tilted his head. He smiled too, and his wasn't quite as empty. He seemed surprised, and a little more content. It made Tim happy to see that. They ended up wandering over to the fountain, and Tim watched the young children stare at Roy for a few moments before deciding to scatter. Tim couldn't say what it was about the boy that scared them. He wasn't very intimidating, not really. He was even hiding his prosthetic arm.

"Kids don't like me," Roy said, his eyes narrowing a little bit. "Don't blame them. I haven't got the patience to deal with them."

"Maybe you could try…" Tim's eyes flickered around the crowded mall. "Uh, not giving them dirty looks, for one."

"Who says I want them to like me?" Roy Harper smirked, satisfaction drenched in his tone, and Tim sighed. The fountain pattered softly behind them, water dropping into water. Tim watched the ripples bounce against the shimmery tile walls. "Kids are brats."

"So are teenagers," Tim pointed out.

"Yeah, but we're like a different breed of brat." Roy waved his robotic arm into the air, and then quickly shoved his hand back into his pocket. "We're like moody, anti-social, hormonal brats."

"That's even worse."

Roy's eyes rolled, and Tim found that he was very comfortable talking to him. He couldn't quite place why. "Whatever. So like, what do I call you now, anyway?"

"Um…" Tim looked down at his knees. "T is fine."

"Your name begins with a T?" Roy's smile was too delighted, and far too sly for Tim's liking.

"Maybe," Tim said, shrugging. "Or maybe it's my last name. Or the name of my dog. Or maybe I'm just screwing with you."

"It's totally your name." Roy looked far too happy, and he was nodding to himself. "Yeah, I can work with this."

"You won't figure it out."

"Tom?" Roy offered, studying Tim's face intently.

"No."

"Tim?"

"No."

"Tyler?"

"No."

Roy looked frustrated, and Tim had to smile. He was easier to read than Tim had realized. Arsenal was not an enigma. He was just a broken boy with a bad attitude, and a heap of issues that needed tending to.

"I'll figure it out," Roy swore, his eyes narrowing at Tim's face. Tim smiled a little to himself, but he couldn't help feeling a little nervous. Arsenal may very well do so. What would he do then?

"You do that," Tim said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Stephanie and the others returned not long after. Tim felt almost… himself again for a little while as they wandered around the mall aimlessly. Roy pestered him about getting back into the business, and Tim could only reply with a very blunt no. After a while Steph smacked Roy's ear, and told him that what made him feel better didn't necessarily work on Tim.

Part of him wasn't so sure.

* * *

"Again."

Jason gathered himself from the floor, bruised and battered, and he scooped the sword up from the ground beside him. What fascinated him about Talia was that she was keeping her word. _She_ was the one training him. It was something Jason was certain she didn't do often with Damian, and for that Jason felt an odd mixture of pride and guilt_. Bruce would train him_, Jason couldn't help but think. _Dick and Babs and me and Tim, we would help, but it would mostly be Bruce_.

Sometimes Jason liked to think about life in Gotham. With Damian. They weren't much different from his normal daydreams. Jason still stuck around Tim, and Bruce still was painfully distant, and Dick came by for dinner only to be bombarded. But instead of Jason attacking Dick, it was Damian. In the daydreams, Tim and Jason merely watched, half amused as the fight unfolded. Alfred would always quell it quickly.

But daydreams were all they were. Jason couldn't play pretend, and he couldn't lose himself in the calm of it all. His life was blood, and the longer Jason stayed with Damian and Talia, the wider the red stain grew. There was no calm at the end of this path, and Jason knew it. He knew it, and he couldn't help but hate himself for it. He was cursing himself ten times over with his actions, and yet he just couldn't let it go. To kill the Joker? It was all Jason ever wanted.

Jason had gotten better after the Kaldur altercation. After getting some sleep he had managed to regain his bearings, feeling silly and dizzy in the morning. His nose was healing fine, but his mental state was worse for wear. He had trouble distinguishing nightmare from reality nowadays, and sometimes he awoke in the middle of training, still half dreaming of a coffin and a strangled laugh and a death by fire.

Talia knew that Damian had grown attached to Jason. Though Jason used the word attached loosely. Damian stuck around Jason purely by association. As if being around Batman's protégé brought him closer to Batman. Jason couldn't blame him, even if he annoyed the fuck out of him. The kid wanted to know his father. Jason could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. All he wanted was to know Batman. It was almost too sad.

Jason attacked, and without thought he was moving. It was all a dance of step and blows, and over and over and over again it went. Talia wasn't exactly impatient, but she was nothing like Bruce. Bruce had always been careful with time, pushing Jason only when he thought it best. Talia pushed Jason to the edge, and then kept pushing.

The truth was, Jason wanted to go home. Everything he did was a straining reminder, and he couldn't shake the feeling of it. He missed Bruce. He missed Dick. He missed Tim. It wasn't fair that he was so trapped in a rut of his own making, because all he'd wanted was answers, and now he had none. Jason struggled with his mind, and he struggled with his heart.

"Again."

Again and again he did what she told him, and again and again he felt himself slipping. _This is good_, he told himself._ If I let all my emotions slide, I'll be able to do it_. Jason couldn't help the knot of terror that grew in his stomach, cramping up and twisting with every anxious thought of taking a gun and pressing the barrel to the Joker's head and squeezing the trigger.

"Talia," Jason said one day, flicking the blood from his arm. There was a cut stinging there, but Jason barely noticed. "If I succeed in your… training… what then?"

Talia studied him, her dark eyes cold. There was the usual chilly demeanor that always shook Jason, the way she seemed to stare right through him. It was as if Talia knew all of his secrets, knew him inside out— in truth, she probably did. She was cold, and she was sharp, but she seemed to mean well.

"Then?" Talia's lips pulled into a tight smile, and Jason blinked as she moved closer to him. "Then you will be tested."

"What do you mean?" Jason ducked, seeing her attack from a mile away. The sword whistled overhead, and he kicked her back. "What kind of test?"

"Just a simple exercise," Talia said, steadying herself. She looked at him, and he saw something glint in her eyes. It could be anything— sadness, or madness. "To see if you are capable."

"I am," Jason said firmly. "I totally am."

"Don't be so eager," Talia hissed, her arm darting out. Jason stumbled, clutching his bleeding cheek from the _smack_ of the flat of her blade striking him. It had drew blood, and it trailed down his chin. "You overestimate yourself."

That was true. Jason always overestimated himself. Again and again, never learning from his mistakes, Jason Todd thought he could do things, and he was proved wrong with blood and pain. He hated himself for it. He hated everything because of it, and he hated himself most of all. Jason _hated_.

The eventual result of Jason's endeavors came unexpectedly. Jason had been observing Damian's training, watching with only a vague interest. It wasn't something he enjoyed, and it made him uncomfortable to watch. _He's too young_, Jason couldn't help but thinking. _He's too young, too tiny, it's not fair_. Damian seemed to have been bred for this very purpose. Jason watched him, and he had skills far, far beyond his years. It was sort of sickening.

"Careful," Jason found himself mumbling, stealing glances at Bruce's son. Damian fought with precision, but with a brutal vigor. Jason saw that he was clipped, refined into a vivid and lithe style that required force and celerity and ruthlessness.

Truthfully, Jason had never been so polished with his technique. Jason used what he knew from the streets, that was how he'd managed his own choppy method. He was all strength and rush and instinct, erratic and fierce and reliant on his own fear to carry him. Black Canary had criticized him on it for weeks before giving in and teaching him how to yield it. Even now, Jason wished he could fight more like Dick. Dick was air, moving with a current of breath and wind, and Jason hated how easy it was for him to just… go. He placed pressure only when needed, and when he did his strength was immense. He could walk across eggshells, and punch a hole in the wall. Jason didn't get it. How could anyone be so measured? So exact, and yet so free? Jealousy was a pinprick between them. For months it had been something that drove them apart, strangling Jason's heart, and setting off Dick's temper. It was silly. Jason regretted it now.

Tim was… different. For all it was worth, he was nothing like Jason. He was almost too precise, moving for practicality's sake. His movements, like Dick's, were measured. He was particular and patient, pushing himself to the edge, but never teetering. Jason was only jealous because he had never gained that sort of control. But Tim was too raw in comparison to Dick and Bruce, and too composed in comparison to Jason. He was a leaf in the wind, wavering between perfection and deficiency.

Jason had leapt to his feet when the boy's instructor had backhanded him so viciously with the blunt edge of his dagger that it had left the child staggering to his knees. A trail of blood dribbled down from his forehead, slipping into one large blue eye when he looked up sharply. Jason had acted only on instinct, reaching over to the weapon rack beside him and snatching a shuriken, whipping it at the man's back.

The man whirled, moving fast to smack the small throwing star away, but he was seconds too late. Jason felt a peculiar twist in his gut, watching the steel bury itself deep inside the man's chest— it was so deep, it was only half visible. And Jason stared, his eyes meeting the man's, and for a moment everything in the world seemed to reflect in the dark irises, sharp and angry, fueled by stardust and fire and dusk and breath. Jason's mouth fell open, an apology heavy on his tongue, but he could not force it from his lips. It was too harsh, too hard, too sad and stupid and silly.

"Todd…?" Damian asked, cupping his bloody forehead. His big blue eyes flashed to his instructor, and his mouth snapped shut.

Jason couldn't move. He saw the dagger flash, and he saw the man moving fast, but he couldn't move. His muscles were taut, strained and tied, and his brain was telling him to run, run, run, but he couldn't bear it. So he stayed still, staring vacantly as the man lurched at him, blade tight in fist. His eyes were nebulous. He saw the steel, and he welcomed it.

The blade tore through his shirt, ripping across his chest in a flash of motion. Jason stumbled back, shocked by the man's sudden blunder. The instructor's hand had jerked at the last moment, and instead of the dagger sheathing into Jason's stomach, it sliced across his chest. Pain shook him, lancing up and down like fingers of lightning. Jason found himself slipping out of the way as the man crumpled, rolling into his back and hissing in some foreign tongue. Jason thought that perhaps he knew it, but he could not tell.

The pain was nothing but a hazy thought. His heart was beating hard in his ears, beating, beating, threatening to blow. The truth was, he was lost amongst his own confusion. He had not meant it, not really. Jason had no idea how he could explain that. He'd done it so fast, he'd just… he hadn't thought. It had been a defensive impulse, a startling need to protect Damian, to get retribution for the cruelty Jason had witnessed for days. How was that bad? It wasn't, right? _Right_?

"No," Jason croaked, dropping to his knees. He saw Damian kick away the man's dagger, a scowl on his plump little lips. Jason flipped the man over, staring at the red stain blooming across his left breast. "No, no, no, I didn't—!"

"Todd," Damian snapped. "Todd, get up."

Jason grappled for the shuriken, but when the man had fallen, he'd fallen on top of it. The weapon was burrowed deep inside his chest, and Jason's fingers were slick with blood before he truly grasped that. And still, he tried, and he tried, shredding his fingertips across the protruding spikes. The man was still alive, still watching Jason with a cold stare. The gaze was empty of everything except hatred.

"Todd!"

"I can get it out," Jason breathed, wincing as he yanked on the shuriken. It gave a little, and the man grunted, glaring listlessly. "I can get it out, I can—"

Damian's fist connected with Jason's jaw, a sharp _smack_ that sent him slumped on his side. Blood was steadily flowing from the gash on his chest, and he coughed, tears prickling his eyes. Damian grabbed him by the collar, and he shook him hard. Jason's brain rattled in his skull, sending him into a dizzy daze.

"Shut up!" Damian growled, pulling Jason up straight. "Get a hold of yourself!"

Jason was staring at the man, gauzy-eyed and empty. The instructor was still holding on, but Jason could hear him breathing heavy, shallow breaths. It was all he could do not to scream. His entire body was shaking, and the pain from his chest was growing unbearably suddenly. He couldn't understand it. He hadn't _meant_ it.

"We have to get a doctor," Jason breathed, pushing himself shakily to his feet. He was clutching Damian with bloody fingers, and Damian looked at him with a mixture of disgust and bemusement. "Come on! We have to—!"

"He's dead," Damian said. Jason felt his heart dissolve into a void. There was nothing in him now but a gaping chasm within his ribs.

"Oh," Jason said, his voice dead. He blinked down at the instructor, and he couldn't grasp where he'd gone wrong. Just a few minutes ago he'd been sitting so peacefully. Now his hands were drenched in blood, and he wasn't sure how to deal with that.

Damian studied Jason's face, his blue eyes growing a little softer. It was almost as if he _sympathized_ with Jason— but he doubted that very much. Jason felt cold, and he pushed off the small child, staggering backwards on unsteady feet. He felt as though there was blood everywhere, and it was seeping into his skin, and he has to shake his head again and again and again. He just didn't understand.

"Well," Damian said, kicking the body onto its back. "He just about outlived his usefulness anyway."

Jason took a deep, shuddering breath. "Oh my god," he murmured, staring down at his hands. They were glistening, red and sticky, blood congealing in the creases of his skin.

"Todd," Damian said slowly. He stared for a few moments, and he sighed, grabbing Jason's wrists. Red, splayed fingers twitched feebly as Damian yanked him forward. Jason had trouble not looking at the body. _I did that. I killed him_.

Jason didn't even know his name.

"What…" Jason's voice was soft, thin and high and small. "What do we do with… with the body?"

Damian shrugged, stepping carefully backwards. Jason followed, his eyes falling on the corpse, and he felt as though he would be sick. "Leave it." Damian sniffed, tugging at Jason's arms. "Someone will come and dispose of it."

"What… about me?" Jason followed the boy, his steps perfunctory. Damian looked at him, blinking confusedly.

"What about you?"

"I…" Jason's voice was feeble, and he gritted his teeth. "I killed your teacher. Shouldn't I pay for that?"

Damian halted to stare up at Jason incredulously. He pushed him, and Jason gasped, blinking rapidly as pain shot through his abdomen. "Why are you so stupid?" Damian hissed. "You won't be _punished_ for killing. Where do you think you are?"

_Home_. Jason found himself squeezing Damian's hands. _Bruce will never forgive me for this. How can I go home now?_ He couldn't understand. How had this happened?

Talia found them in the bathroom. Jason felt a wave of déjà vu, but as Damian shoved his hands into the sink, flicking on the faucet and watching with narrowed eyes. The water ran scalding, burning away the sticky evidence of what Jason had done. _It was an accident_.

No it wasn't.

Jason looked at himself in the mirror. A scrawny boy with a gaunt face, and a torn, bloody chest. He looked like nothing. He looked exactly how Jason felt. Like a great big heap of nothing assembled into a _stupid _boy.

Talia barged in unannounced, barking something at Damian. Jason knew the language, he knew he did, but he couldn't quite get a firm grasp on it. Damian replied in a bored tone, wiping his bloody hands on a towel and shrugging. Talia glanced at Jason, and she gave him a very sweet, very soft smile.

Jason wanted nothing more at that moment than to scratch her eyes out.

"Jason," Talia said, pressing her fingers to his shoulder. He let her. He didn't care. _I can't let them know how scared I am_, Jason thought dazedly. He flicked the faucet off, his fingers still feeling sticky and wet, and he glanced away from Talia's face.

"I'm fine," he said, resisting the urge to shrug her off. "Just… I just need a minute, okay?"

"I understand," Talia said, squeezing his shoulder. He bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her. _I'm among snakes here. I need to be careful where I tread, or else I might never go home_. Never had Jason wanted to be in the comfort of the manor more than now. And even so, everything in him rejected the idea. They would hate him, they would _loathe_ him. He was no better than the villains they faced. He was a murderer.

"What happened?" Talia asked Damian, in English this time. Jason leaned over the sink, gripping the ledge with white knuckles. "Tell me exactly."

Damian looked very small under the gaze of his mother. "I was training," Damian said, his voice clipped. "Meryn hit me." Damian pointed one finger to his temple. "And then Todd just… snapped. He threw a shuriken. It was aimed for his left shoulder, but Meryn turned too fast, and it ended up in his heart."

Talia watched Damian with her cool, dark gaze, and then she spun to face Jason. Her expression was chilly, and Jason could feel his arms shaking. "An accident," she said steadily. "Jason. You understand that my son was in no real danger, don't you?"

"I…" Jason swallowed, his throat dry and tight. "I know. I just… I don't know. I wasn't thinking."

"That much was obvious," Damian sneered. Talia shot a look at him, and he looked down.

"What you did," Talia said, lifting Jason's chin with tip of her finger, "was not a bad thing. I understand that this is… not what you expected, in terms of your first kill. But it will grow easier."

Jason jerked his head to the side, taking a large step back. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. "You don't get it," Jason spat, his fingers clenching into fists. He could still feel the blood there, between his fingers, buried in the grooves of his skin. "This isn't what I wanted at all, and you know it!"

"Jason, calm down." Talia raised her hands, but her voice was sharp now, reprimanding. "I know. The Joker is the only one you want dead. But in order to get to our larger goals, we must first reap the smaller ones."

"No." Jason shook his head, and he shook it profusely. "No, you're so wrong. That guy's death didn't help me at all. It won't help me kill the Joker. That was pointless. It was a meaningless death, and I did it."

"He would have died anyway," Damian said, leaning against the granite countertop. "You only accelerated the inevitable."

"Shut up," Jason hissed. Damian's entire body reacted, jumping as if he'd caught aflame, and he glowered at Jason so vehemently he seemed to radiate rage.

"No," Damian hissed back. "I will not!"

"Damian," Talia said briskly. "Wait outside."

Damian looked up at his mother, blue eyes big and wide and innocent. _He doesn't know any better. He can't understand how wrong he is_. "But mother—"

"Out." Talia's eyes were frightening, like two blocks of coal glowing in her eye sockets. "I won't say it again."

Damian looked up at Jason, and there was something akin to regret in his furious expression. He trudged out the door, lips twisted into a scowl. He looked sad. Jason turned away, looking back at the mirror. The gash on his chest only seemed to grow worse, blood running down Jason's chest, staining the entire front of his torn shirt. Jason saw a bloody beast staring back, hollow eyed and empty, and it looked like a dead thing that had crawled up from the grave.

Jason watched Talia's fingers wind around his shoulders, and he stared, wondering how far he would get if he ran. He'd have to attack Talia. Try and knock her out, and then face Damian, who could easily gut him in this state. And even if Jason got past Damian, there were so many assassins, Jason would be dead within minutes. He had to be rational. He had to be smart now, or else…

"Jason," Talia said, her lips brushing his ear. He wanted to scream. He wanted to pin all the blame on her, but he couldn't justify it in his own mind. He could barely breathe, he was so lost and uncertain. There was anger inside him, but he felt cold and numb to all sense of emotion. "Look at me."

_No_, Jason thought. _Let me go. Let me go, and leave me alone with the guilt. I hate you. I hate you all_. To say it was not so easy.

"Jason," Talia repeated. She raised her fingers to his cheek, carefully tilting his head to face her. He stared at her, and there was a coldness to his gaze so biting, he hoped it chilled her bones. "It gets easier. You must understand, this would have happened eventually. You know it, yes? You are innocent." She cupped his cheek, her fingers soft and gentle. It was a touch that made his skin crawl, too kind and too much too fast. He wished nothing more than to smack her hand away. "Innocence here will get you very little good. You must be hard, Jason. Hard and strong and cold. Can you do that?"

Jason stared into her sharp black eyes, and he found himself nodding in spite of himself. "Yes," he said, his voice thin and breathy. _No_, he thought numbly. _This isn't me_.

She smiled her sweet, venomous smile, and she pressed her warm lips to his forehead. They lingered there for far too long, and he bit his tongue, glaring at her neck in defiance. He wanted to kick and scream and spit at her, smack her away from him and run, run, run home. But he couldn't. That much was glaringly apparent.

"Good," Talia said, pulling back. Jason was filled with immense relief as she released him. "You understand then. No tears. No shame. This is the path is a harsh one, and you must not show weakness."

"It's not weak to show remorse," Jason said dully.

Talia tilted her head, her long brown curls slipping from her shoulder. "No," she said, "it is not weak to _feel_ remorse. Do not let your friends nor enemies know what you think or feel. It will only bring you grief in the end if you do."

"I've had enough grief," Jason hissed, pushing away from her. His kneels were buckling, and as more blood seeped from his wound, he grew more unsteady. "I've had enough of _you_."

If that stung, Talia showed no sign of hurt. She smiled her listless smile, eyes glittering with amusement. "I'm sure," she said, laughter in her voice. "Would you like another instructor? Perhaps we could toss Meryn into the pit, and have _him_ train you, hmm? Would you like that, Jason?"

Jason blanched, and he looked away as she gave a chuckle. "I told you I didn't want to kill anyone but the Joker," Jason said. "I don't want this, Talia, I don't want any of this!"

"This is what you have," Talia said curtly. "This is _all _you have."

"No!" Jason staggered back, falling against the sinks. "That's not true! I have a family!"

"Do you believe that?" Talia's eyes seemed to soften. "Truly?"

"Yes," Jason breathed instantly. "Of course, I—!"

She slapped him. It was a sharp slap, a reprimanding smack that only made his head snap to the side. He clamped his mouth shut, and found himself lost again. He stared at her, and he chewed on his tongue to keep himself from spitting a curse at her face. She watched him with her cool gaze, and her poison smile, and he wanted to smack her back just to wipe away her confidence.

"No more of this," Talia said stiffly. "Understand me?"

Jason gritted his teeth. "Yes," he hissed. He stared her straight in the eye, and he let her see just how dead he felt. "Can I go to my room now?"

"No," Talia said, taking him by the arm. She snatched his arms, pushing him against the sinks, flicking on the water and letting it run until it steamed. "Take off your shirt."

He obeyed, wincing as the gash tore open further. Talia took a towel, and she began cleaning his wound without another word.

* * *

Tim hugged his knees to his chest, sitting atop a crate as he watched Dick work. The warehouse was all shadows and grays, a dingy place that felt sketchy and unnerving. Tim felt so sorry for those who had to live in the warehouse, because it felt cold and inhospitable. The more he sat, the sadder he got. He missed Stephanie.

Steph had left to live with her mother a few days previous. The goodbye had been brief, a tight hug from the girl, a desperate thank you, and a kiss on the cheek. She'd been gone before Tim knew it, and the manor felt empty without her. It wasn't as if Tim didn't talk to her, because more often than not his phone was buzzing with a new text from his blonde friend. She called him too, talking for hours about nothing at all, and Tim listened intently, because her voice was a strange and needed comfort.

Tim talked to Roy, too. It was an odd friendship, to be true, but it gave Tim a sense of solace. Roy was very vocal about what he hated, and had a very large streak of defiance. Tim wondered sometimes if he did things just because he knew they were unorthodox. He was a boy with far too many dreams, and far too little hope to fulfill them.

Before Stephanie had left, she had proven herself to be adept at fighting. She was lithe and steady, but a little too coarse and rash. One night when Dick had been home, she had marched up to him and all but commanded him to fight her. It had been silly, and sudden, and Dick had been reluctant to oblige at first. But after some prodding, they did fight. And Steph had stood her own pretty well, all things considering. She was pretty good, and given the proper training Tim could almost see a greatness in her.

But Tim didn't want that. He wished he'd been wrong about what fighting crime did to the mind, but he wasn't. Stephanie had gotten a taste of what it was like to be a hero. It got its claws in her, and now she couldn't run away. She was attached, and she wanted it, and Tim could see it in her eyes when she asked to fight Dick again, and again, and again. Tim never brought up the Robin thing. He never had to. He knew she knew he was disappointed.

"Why did you bench Roy?" Tim asked suddenly, watching Dick's back after he got a call from the Team. They were almost home, and the mission was a success. M'gann and La'gann had arrived, but La'gann was hiding somewhere, and M'gann had left quickly.

Dick stopped for a moment, his head turning slightly back. And he sighed, a small sad sigh that released his exhaustion in a breath. "Tim…" Dick rubbed his head, and he turned halfway to stare at the younger boy. "Roy wasn't ready to be on the Team. To be honest, I don't know if he'll ever be ready— he probably won't even want to come back. He needs time, and he needs help. I think maybe we might have been able to offer the kind of help he needs before, back when things were simpler, and we weren't so stressed with the Invasion, but now? Roy needs attention, Tim. But we can't provide the attention he needs right now."

"They'll ask me about coming back," Tim said, his voice flat. "What's the difference? If anything, I'd be even worse than Roy— maybe worse than Jason. I don't know what… triggers me, and what doesn't. Roy didn't either, Dick. How could he?"

Dick turned, and Tim wished he could see his eyes. Then maybe he wouldn't feel so foolish about asking in the first place. Dick's eyes could lie, sure, but there was a reason he wore a mask. His lip was a thin line, and he looked at Tim, his head bowing slightly.

"I know," Dick sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I know it looks bad. But you have to understand, Arsenal was causing more harm than good. For us and _himself._ You're exactly right, Tim, we have no idea what could trigger him, and neither does he. He attempted suicide, and he was willing to take the entire Team with him." That forced Dick to look away, and Tim felt a knot form in his stomach, pinching him with discomfort and fear. "I was harsh, I'll admit it. If he was Jason… I don't think it would have gone the way it did."

_You see it too_, Tim thought_. How alike Jason and Roy are. You see it._ Tim was glad he wasn't the only one.

"You should apologize," Tim said. "It wasn't his fault. He was just scared. We all do crazy things when we're scared."

Dick studied Tim's face, and he gave him a weak smile. "Okay, Tim," Dick said gently. "I'll apologize the next chance I get, okay?"

Tim smiled shyly back. He'd been thinking a lot lately, and he knew it wasn't fair that Roy Harper had been blamed for something beyond his control. Tim understood how it felt to be a victim of uncontrollable fear, and so he felt that it was his duty to reach out to Arsenal's defense. Who else would, after all? _People like us have to stick together_.

When the Team finally showed up, Tim slipped off the crate to greet them. There was a general look of shock exhibited from everyone aside from Barbara, who smiled warmly at him. The next thing he knew, he had a pair of hairy green arms flung around his shoulders, and shouts of delight rang through the warehouse. Tim's eyes went wide behind his glasses, and he bit his lip, struggling with his discomfort.

"Rob, you're back!" Gar gasped into Tim's chest, bouncing up and down. "You're _back_!"

Tim shook his head, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth. He took Garfield's hands, hoping desperately that he would get the hint and let go, but Gar seemed too happy. Tim couldn't do it. It didn't feel fair to the boy, despite the fact that Tim's skin was itching. His scars were prickling, and he twisted his head looking around for Dick, but there were just too many people surrounding him…

"It's so good to see you!" Cassie cried, crashing the hug with her own crushing grip. Tim blinked, and he flushed, and he twisted in her grasp. "Man, you're so skinny! You need to fatten up, okay, I could snap you!"

Tim couldn't speak. His mind was numb to her words, and he blinked profusely, trying to remind himself where he was. These were his friends. His _friends_. This was happy. _This was supposed to be happy_, damn it! But the longer Tim stood, the more he seemed to sink away, his heart and head dissolving into a deep chasm of confusion and pain. He struggled to get a grasp on reality.

"Hey, Rob," Bart said, waving a hand in front of Tim's face. "Are you…?"

"Let go," Tim whispered, his tongue feeling heavy and cumbersome. He stared at Bart, and he could feel his lip trembling. His entire body was reacting negatively, and he felt awful, his stomach twisting in dismay. He didn't want them to think it was them. It wasn't. It was _hugs_. It was… unfamiliar, and it made him react. He wished he could be comfortable with them, like he was when he was at home with Dick and Alfred and Barbara and Steph, but this was so different, and he wanted to scream.

"Wha…?" Cassie did let go, but she was still too close. Garfield picked his head up, and he looked up at Tim with a furrowed brow.

"Let go," Tim croaked, his entire body trembling. "Let go of me, please, let go, please, let go, please—"

"Beast Boy!" Nightwing barked. Tim jolted, the sound of Dick rebuking anyone, especially _Gar_, startling him. "Get _back_."

Garfield immediately tore himself away from Tim, and he looked so terrified in that moment, Tim wanted to reach out to him, but he just couldn't. His insides were hurting, and his outsides were itching, and he was shaking so badly he couldn't think. He could hear himself breathing, a low, rattling sound that was the stuff of horror films. Ghosts made that noise.

Barbara got to Tim before Dick did. She took him by the shoulders and spun him around, so his back was facing the Team. The very moment she grasped him, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of her cape, trying desperately to steady himself. He looked up at her, his mouth agape, and his head shaking profusely.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, glancing at the others. They were all standing stock still, watching him with varying expressions of pity and confusion. "Oh, god, I-I… I'm so sorry, I…"

"Shh," Barbara whispered, pressing her hand to the top of his head. The feeling was a relief. _Why does she make me feel better? _He couldn't be certain. All he knew was that it wasn't their fault. It was his. There was something desperately wrong with him. "Don't be sorry. It's okay if you're overwhelmed."

Tim took a deep breath, scratching his neck. He winced, pulling his hand back to find dead skin stuck under his nails. His burn was stinging now. Barbara held him as he turned, pressing his lips together thinly. His shaking was cajoled, but he was scared it would start again. When he glanced around, he saw that Dick had stopped beside Garfield to press a hand to his back, whispering an apology in his ear. Tim knew it was an apology. He could see it in Garfield's eyes. Within that apology was a stern warning.

"I'm really sorry," Tim said, his voice stretched. He looked down at his feet, his cheeks flushing. "I… I'm not good with being touched, I'm sorry."

"Oh my god." Cassie looked mortified. "No, Robin, I'm sorry, I had no—"

"I know." Tim let his fingers slip from Barbara's cape, and he gave a shrug. His new skin grew taut, and he thought for a moment it might have ripped. "It's a… recent thing."

That seemed to make them understand. Horror dawned on some of their faces, pity on others. Tim felt guilt bubbling in his stomach.

"This isn't how I wanted it to go," he blurted, feeling his body curl into itself. "I wanted to see you guys, I—" He looked at Jaime, who was watching him with wide eyes. "I mean, Blue! You're free now, dude! I wanted to be here when you got back. I wanted…" _I wanted to pretend things could be normal. But I guess they can't_.

"No sweat, _ese_," Jaime said gently, his smile small, yet genuine. "I'm glad, actually. To see you, I mean. I haven't… I mean, I was a little in the dark."

"A little." Tim smiled, and he looked down. He found himself chewing on his lip until it drew blood. "You guys can hug me if you want. I'm okay now."

They looked wary. Tim couldn't blame them. _At least I didn't snap at them_, Tim thought glumly. In truth, Tim wasn't sure how to handle this. He was sad, and they were sad too, and the sorrow was palpable. Tim looked down at his feet, wringing his hands nervously. He was such an idiot. He was _so_ stupid, and it hurt to know it.

Bart was the one to hug him first. He zipped forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Tim's torso. At first Tim reacted similarly, his body stiffening, and he initially rejected it. But he calmed, his body relaxing, and he smiled at Bart. He was happy because these were his friends, and he was okay, he was _okay_. Despite everything, despite the crushing feeling inside him, despite the constant brush of laughter inside his head, despite the monster watching from the corner— Tim was _fine_.

It was a great big lie. Tim turned his face away from them as they tentatively gathered around him. He hoped they didn't see his tears.

* * *

It was an odd numbness. The world was cold, and his heart was hollow, and the longer he laid and thought, the more he was poisoned against himself. It had been wrong. It had been so, so, so, so_ wrong_, and he knew that, but part of him just couldn't help but feeling apathy. It wasn't… so bad, was it? He'd been trying to protect Damian. He'd been trying to help. But all that was left in him was a vacuous space where guilty should reside, and he was disturbed and scared and disgusted.

No one seemed to notice the man was dead. It was as if it had not even happened, as if it had all been a horrible nightmare. Jason couldn't help but wonder if he had been imagining. It hadn't felt real. The killing? It didn't feel so bad. It had been too easy, and that worried him. It just wasn't _right_, and he knew it. He'd died before. He knew so well how horrifying it was, how empty and dark death truly was. He hated himself. He _loathed_ himself.

He was supposed to be the better one. _Yeah_, Jason thought. _Fuck that. I'm only better at being terrible_. He wished he could take it back, but he knew well that there was no use dwelling. He'd killed someone. He felt numb to it. Wasn't this what he'd wanted? Wasn't this what he needed? _If I'm going to kill to Joker_…

"Todd."

Jason rolled over onto his side, his back facing Damian. His candle flickered, casting restless shadows across his walls. He wanted to smack the stupid child. That thought filled him with instant guilt— he didn't want to hurt Damian. If he could, he'd spirit Damian away so he could live the rest of his childhood in a healthier environment. Less death and abuse and pressure, and more kids and toys and television.

Damian kicked Jason's bed, sending Jason jolting upright. Damian grabbed him by the arm and heaved, yanking Jason off his cot, spitting at him, "_Humaq_!"

Jason rolled, maneuvering his body so he fell right on top of the boy. The noise the child made was a mixture of a squeak and a snarl, a melting sound of vulnerability that morphed into a guttural hiss of rage. Damian was a child underneath the fineries and cautiously chiseled mindset of a coldblooded killer. Jason saw it more and more, the stark paint peeling back to reveal a colorful wall. Damian was a ball of sweet dreams that had been glossed over and over with layers of poison and steel and blood. Jason still imagined him in a different light— in a different _life_, with brighter eyes and a softer voice, and a demure, but headstrong attitude that could sail him easily through life. Jealously was gone, and replaced was a sad longing for normalcy. For family.

Damian punched him hard, his little body slipping out from under Jason. "Stupid!" Damian cried, kicking Jason onto his back. "Imbecile!" Jason almost smiled as the child kicked him again, pain sparking in his chest. The wound was only just beginning to heal, and it throbbed dully. "_Humaq_!"

Jason was spitting blood by the time Damian settled down. "What do you want?" Jason asked, wiping his mouth.

Damian glowered, sharp eyes glinting in the darkness. "To tell you," Damian hissed, jerking his head away, "that I hate you."

"Oh, yes," Jason said coolly. "I know. What else?"

Damian stared at the candle, and his bony little shoulders shrugged. He glowered at the ground, and then he glanced up at Jason. His brow was cast over his eyes, and it was obvious that he was angry. "Grandfather wants to speak with you," he said. He watched Jason, studying his face carefully.

That caught his attention. Something inside him twisted anxiously, uncertain of how to take the information. Jason had been waiting for so long… was this truly it? Or was it a trick? "And," Jason said, "he sent you?"

Damian's eyes flashed away, and Jason gave a laugh so bitter and mirthless, and tasted like acid against his tongue. "You know you're pretty rebellious, all things considering," Jason said, tilting his head. Damian glared up at Jason, and he shook his head.

"I hate you," he said petulantly. Jason rolled his eyes, and the boy continued, gaining gusto. His lips drew back into a snarl. "I hate you and your idiocy, and I hate how _everyone _loves you when it's so obvious that you are _nothing_!"

Jason felt a pang in his heart, but he ignored it. The boy couldn't say anything that Jason didn't already know. So Jason instead watched Damian's cool expression, and he smiled somberly. "I get it," Jason sighed, scratching his head. "I really do. You're jealous because I'm getting so much attention."

Damian's eyes went wide, a furious sneer forming on his lips. "I am _not_—!" he started, his voice going particularly high.

"Yeah, sure," Jason snapped. Damian shoved him hard in response, and Jason's back hit his bed, rattling the steel. "Just admit it! You hate me because you're jealous, and you want Talia and Bruce all to yourself, because they're _you're_ parents, not mine." Jason stopped, and he blinked rapidly. The shadows flickered, and he felt an old wound peel open, spilling all his fears and insecurities onto the floor in a river of black and red and white. "And you're right. You're completely right. Like, fuck, what right do I have to call either of them family?"

"None," Damian answered, his tone bored.

"Bruce isn't my father," Jason said softly, pulling his knees to his chest. The world felt hot all of a sudden, like the sun had burst forward to consume him. "Dick isn't my brother. Neither is Tim. Neither are you."

Damian looked almost confused. He stared at Jason, and there was a soft innocence to his expression that made Jason want to laugh and cry and push the child. "Don't tell me," Damian said, "you ever even entertained the thought…?"

"Of course I did," Jason hissed. He watched the kid move closer, his face crumbling into a stark childlike fascination. "Because they're still my family. That's not something that's gonna change, got it?"

"That's ridiculous," Damian murmured. "They are not your family. Even someone so simpleminded as you should know that."

_It's no use_, Jason thought sadly. _It's lost on him_.

"They _are_ my family," Jason said firmly. Damian looked livid, his tan face twisting in disgust. "They care about me." _I know that. I do_. "And I care about them too. That's what family is, Damian. Blood and genes don't matter much unless there's love behind them. And I love my family."

"Then why are you here?" Damian spat, leaning over him. The shadow he cast was large and yawning, like a great black beast. "Go! Go back to your so-called _family_!"

Jason glared up at Damian, and he was so tired of fighting. He was so tired, and his heart was weary. He thought about the man he killed, and his gut twisted at the thought of going home. _They'll hate me for this_. "I would if I could," Jason said, resting his head back. "Get out. I'm done with you."

"I'll leave when I want to!"

"Get out!" Jason jumped to his feet. "Get the hell out of here!"

"No!" Damian stomped his foot, and at that moment Jason couldn't even be seriously angry at him. _He's just a little kid_, Jason thought. "You're nothing! You are an upjumped gutter rat, and you should be dead! You're a failure! A wastrel! I hate everything you are, and everything you do!"

"And you're a liar, and a brat, and a demonspawn!" Jason shot right back. "You say you hate me _sooo _much, and yet you keep coming back to me! Face it, you just want to hate me 'cause I know Bruce, and he doesn't even know you exist. You hate the idea of me."

"Shut up!" Damian's leg shot out into a roundhouse kick, but Jason saw it coming. He snatched the boy's leg in the air and thrust him back, watching him catch himself in a roll— but only barely. Damian huffed, his little chest rising and falling heavily. And then he darted forward, moving swiftly to catch Jason's jaw with his bony fist.

It felt good.

Like a release of emotion, a hiss and spitting lurch of numbed feelings and apathetic thoughts. They slid away, and he found himself smiling stupidly, the world spinning wildly around him. Damian punched him again, and again, and Jason felt blood in his mouth. Sweet bitterness, released like a thousand sighs. It was relief and it was guilt and it was harsh and it was cold, all at once a daze of confusion and pain and numbness and placidity.

Jason coughed, blood dribbling down his chin as Damian was yanked away from him. He blinked away pain induced stars, lips parting in awe. He hadn't even heard the door burst open. He watched Damian's little legs flail wildly as he objected profusely, his voice high and pitchy. His mother grasped him, spitting at him in rapid Arabic, "_Bil hudoo, ibni! Eskoot_. _Bil hudoo_."

Damian gripped his mother's arms, his legs falling curiously limp as he twisted around, making a soft whining noise. He kicked the air feebly, clawing at nothing and squirming, looking more like a squalling child than Jason had ever seen him. He was pitiful, his small whimpers of objections left unanswered as his mother held him tighter. He went silent, staring at Jason with a gaze empty and dark. His mother set him down, and he gave Jason a long, withering look before moving from the room, his feet padding softly.

Talia sighed, standing before Jason with her arms crossed and her lips pursed. She looked as if she'd only just found her child scribbling on the floor. _Now_, her face read, _what am I going to do with this mess?_ It might have been amusing, if it wasn't so sad.

She bent down, and she wiped his chin with the pad of her thumb. Her fingertip brushed his lip, and he turned his face away. "Jason," she said, her voice silk and honey hiding fangs and poison. "Come with me, now."

"Get away from me," Jason mumbled, his busted lip stinging. He curled up, resting his cheek on his sunken mattress. He just wanted everyone to go away, to let him be in peace. _If only they let me rest in peace_. It was funny. He wondered what it had been like. The mourning process had been lost on Jason. When his mother had died, he'd fled to the streets. He'd had no time to truly mourn, because he'd been too busy trying to figure his way around survival. Artemis… had thrown him. He'd been lost to begin with, and her death had struck him like knives striking through his bones. But Jason wasn't sure how he'd mourned. Maybe he was still mourning. _No one's gonna mourn the guy I killed_. The thought was disheartening.

"Jason," Talia repeated, this time harsher. She gripped his chin between her fingers, jerking his face in order to force him to look at her. "Don't be a fool. You must come with me."

"I _am_ a fool," Jason spat, blood flying. "I'm stupid, and I'm dead. Fuck, why am I not dead…" Jason leaned his head back, closing his eyes. She slapped him, and he coughed on blood, spitting and gasping. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him to his feet. Jason went without a word, fear gathering up in his stomach and twisting harshly. She led him through the twisting halls, and when they stopped, he found himself weary and wary.

Ra's stood with his back facing the door, his body language implying he'd been expecting them. Jason didn't doubt it. Talia stood by his side, keeping a noticeable distance after entering the room. Jason glared at his back, feeling bitter and furious. He'd been there far too long, it seemed. He longed for home, for family and for warmth. The only thing holding him back was that one plaguing question, the guilt over taking a life, and the man in front of him.

"Talia," Ra's said, "leave us."

Talia's eyes flashed to Jason's, and for a moment she didn't seem so inscrutable. She stared at him, eyes big and black and pleading. She took a step back, and then another, until Jason could not see her face anymore. And then she was gone, the door closing with a _click_. He watched Ra's stand never moving a muscle.

"Do you have an answer?" Jason asked, growing impatient.

Ra's sounded amused. "Do you have manners?" He turned, his lips turned into a coy smile. "Yes, I have an answer."

Fear coiled inside Jason, and he wanted to scream. "Well?" he gasped, lurching forward. "What is it? Magic? Science? Both? What's _wrong_ with me?"

Ra's held up his hand, and Jason had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping something nasty. "Sit," said Ra's. Jason marched up to his table, plopping down on one the red velvet chairs set up. Jason eyed the wine glasses already set up with unease. When Ra's offered one to him, he took it, but he simply stared into its claret contents. _Never drink from glass set specifically for you_, Bruce's voice warned in his head_. Never drink from a glass left alone_. "I expect you are anxious."

"Uh," Jason said, his voice bitter. "_Yeah_."

Ra's shrugged. "To be expected," he said, sipping his own wine. "I understand that you have recently had your first taste of blood."

Jason looked down at his wine, and it never appeared more unappealing. "I'm not a killer," Jason said firmly. "That was… an accident."

"Ah." Ra's smile was wicked. "And I suppose if you actually drank that wine, and dropped dead a few minutes later, that too would be an _accident_ of my own making."

Jason's nerves chilled. His heart rammed hard against his chest, and he steeled himself, hoping he appeared colder than he felt. On the inside, he was frantic. His mind was racing, and impulse took hold of him. He leapt to his feet and splashed the wine into Ra's al Ghul's face.

He watched it splatter across the floor and table and velvet chair. It stained the man's face pink, and the gray in his hair turned deep red. Rivulets of wine trickled down the man's cheek thinner than blood, thicker than water. His eyes were closed, and he appeared almost tranquil. Cold fury, perhaps. He stood up, and Jason took a weak, staggering step back, fear breaking through his steely mask, and his mouth fell open for a moment. He watched Ra's snap his eyes open, and reach for Jason with a bony hand.

Long fingers grasped Jason's glass, prying it from his fingers. Ra's set it down on the table, and he smiled at Jason, licking his lips. The wine fell onto his tongue, and Jason felt his gut twist.

"I could have your right hand for that," Ra's said, wiping his cheek on his sleeve. "Perhaps both."

"You won't," Jason said. His voice was unsteady.

"Oh," Ra's chuckled, "you think so?"

Jason's lips pressed together thinly. "You _need_ me," Jason said. "Why else keep me here?"

"Are you not a guest?" Ra's had a smile that made worms crawl under Jason's skin. "Are you not comfortable enough? I'll see to it your accommodations are in better taste."

"That's not what I want," Jason said.

Ra's sighed. "Oh," he said, striding to the cabinet in the corner. "Yes, of course. Your desires reside in Gotham, I presume?"

Jason said nothing. Ra's pulled a towel from the cabinet, and he wiped at his face. His lips were pursed, and he reminded Jason of Talia.

"Yes," he said, "I thought so. Jason, I'm afraid I must be the bearer of grave news. They will not accept you after this folly. You must know this."

He felt ice in his bones, and tasted blood in his mouth. "I don't need you to tell me what they'll do," Jason said, careful and tense. "I know, okay? It doesn't change a thing."

"You are willing to return to the people who will undoubtedly reject you?" Ra's gave a scoff. "You always were the improbable one. Impossible, impulsive, improbable Jason Todd."

"Yes," Jason said. 'That's me. Imperfect, impassive, implacable."

"Impeccable," said Ra's al Ghul. "Important."

"Impatient," Jason growled. "Tell me what I want to know! Why am I _here_?"

"You are here," Ra's said, "because I called for you." He dabbed at his face, and raised his head high. "You see, I am leaving on the morrow. The duration of my absence is impossible to predict, so I wanted to leave with the… assurance, that you will still be here upon my return."

"And why would I?" Jason asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Ra's smiled. It was the same poisonous smile that Talia often wore.

"Why," he said, tossing the wine-drenched towel onto the table, "because you want to know how you were resurrected. And I know the answer."

* * *

Trying to go to sleep was like trying to scrub away twenty years of mildew, dirt, grime, and blood stains off an old mirror with nothing but a toothbrush. He laid awake, trying so desperately to push away all the terrible thoughts and let the good things comfort him. He wanted to sleep, but it was so hard when he knew what he became. There was a monster inside him, and the longer he scraped at the layer of grime caked onto the mirror of his mind, the more of the monster was exposed to him. Small and hollow eyed and grinning. Tim wondered if he would ever escape him.

He'd fallen asleep waiting for Dick to come home. Sitting on the couch, texting Stephanie to keep himself occupied, he'd grown tired. There had been a buzzing in his ear, and a monster in the corner. Tim tried not to look, but he could feel him there, and the presence was like a fire roaring and consuming his senses. He coughed a few times, his throat tickling, itching to laugh. He called for Alfred only once, and that was when his eyes caught on the legs of the monster, legs that buckled as it laughed.

"Master Tim?" Alfred asked. Tim said nothing. There was something in his throat. Alfred rested his hand on Tim's head, and smoothed back the twisting black strands. He was overdue for a haircut, but he didn't want one. "What is it?"

Alfred followed Tim's gaze to the corner, his hand dropped to Tim's shoulder. Tim reached up shakily and grasped Alfred's fingers. He bit his lip, his heart beating hard, and he had to remind himself that it wasn't real. Alfred pulled him away, turning his body to face the television. Tim said nothing. He clung to Alfred's bony fingers for a few moments when Alfred moved to leave, but the man slipped away, disappearing into the hallway.

_You're so useless_, a voice cooed into his ear. _If you were ever really special you'd be back on your feet by now. But you're hopeless, and you're helpless_.

Alfred returned a few minutes later with a blanket, which he carefully tacked into the walls intersecting at the corner. The blanket draped over the monster, and Tim had to do a double take. For a moment, he felt at ease, and he looked up at Alfred with big eyes.

"Chin up, sir," Alfred said gently, nudging under Tim's chin with the joint of his finger. "We may be well on our way to leaving this mess behind us."

Tim smiled faintly. "On our way," Tim said in a weak voice. "Maybe. I hope so."

Alfred sat beside him, studying him with his wise, dark eyes. "When Master Bruce was a boy," Alfred said, smiling fondly, "he had a dreadful experience with a well."

Tim blinked, and he glanced up at Alfred. "A… well. Like, a pail and hovel well?"

At that, Alfred's smile seemed to dampen. "A pit," Alfred said. A deep sort of shudder ran through Tim, tingling his spine. "A deep, lightless shaft had been dug deep into the earth, hidden by ruts and moss and leaves. Its walls were stone, paved very carefully in cobble. Manmade, of course, and very old. You see, Master Bruce had been an adventurous child. He loved to explore, to climb, to learn and experience all on his own. He often went off on his own, sneaking away from us…" Alfred's smile brightened. "Well, some things never really change, do they?"

Tim found himself laughing, a soft sound of amusement and awe. Nothing hurt about it. "I guess not," Tim said.

"No." Alfred shook his head. He closed his eyes, and he leaned back. "Well, one day he decided to go out into the forest. We were nearby, of course, but not quite near enough. He fell." Alfred opened his eyes, and his smile was taut. "It wasn't his fault. The well was hidden, and half over grown by tree roots. Only an animal, or a child could slip through."

Tim found himself horrified. His entire body felt cold as ice. "Why are you telling me this?" Tim blurted.

Alfred smiled down at him. "It took us an hour to find him, but by then he'd been wading in the dark water, and he was half drowned. After we got him out, he didn't speak for days, and he had nightly terrors, which he grew out of after a few weeks. He refused to go swimming after that, however." Alfred tilted his head, and he chuckled. "It was a very long time before Master Bruce went anywhere near a body of water larger than a puddle. Eventually, though, he face his trepidation. Do you know what he told me after he did?"

Tim wondered. He could almost hear Bruce's voice in his ear. _Better to face it now, than later_. "I don't know," Tim said. "What?"

Alfred's smile widened, and he placed his hand on Tim's shoulder. "He said, "That was really _scary_, Alfred. Don't expect me to do it again!" Of course, the next day he did the same thing." Alfred shrugged, and Tim stared, gaping up at him. "He wasn't one to give up very easily, even when he was young."

"What… are you saying?" Tim asked slowly. He watched Alfred's face, so close that he could see the pores of his skin, the bags under his eyes. "That I should… try and be Robin again?"

Alfred blinked, and he stood up. "Now, I never said that," he said, touching Tim's head. Tim leaned into his touch, his chin brushing his chest. "But if you believe that, who am I to disagree?"

"I can't," Tim croaked. "Alfred, I can't do it, I know I can't!"

"If you say so, sir."

Alfred left the room, and Tim felt uncertainties gnawing at his insides. He found himself lost in his own mind, wondering how anything had ever gone so wrong. He wished for simpler days, and happier times, and he fell asleep wondering if he'd ever be sound of mind enough to get back on his feet again.

Sleep was like a rush of motion. He heard things, terrible things. He heard _himself_. Breath rattling louder than chains.

"Come on," the monster crooned, his face a pasty blue in the cavernous darkness. "What's your name, now?"

His lips trembled. His tongue felt so heavy, he urged it to move, to help him escape this mess. _Use your silver tongue, you can do it_. But his tongue was as stiff and unyielding as his legs, throbbing and bloody beneath him. He was kneeling before the monster, half dressed in rags. He was thankful. It was much better than the nothing he'd been wearing before. His body was achy, but was all phantom pains straining his mind and heart. He fumbled with the words, tears in his eyes. Shameful tears.

"Come on!" the monster sang, twirling a glistening, bloody crowbar like a baton. The beast in motley whacked him across the jaw, and he gasped and choked, laughter echoing in the darkness and swimming and darting— bursting into light, streams of stars flashing fast across his vision and breaking fast, dispersing into night. "Come _on_! What's your _name_?"

The world wept for him. Blood splashed across the world in a wave, and he picked his cheek off the floor, coughing feebly.

"Jay…" he murmured, closing his eyes. It wasn't an answer. It was a plea.

The monster shrieked, and the world tilted. "Good, good!" He leaned closed his reeking breath blowing in his face. "Jay…?"

_Jason_, he thought, bursts of pain hitting him ten fold. _Not you. Never you, you monster_.

That was not the answer he wanted.

"Jay… Jay," he said, his voice fluttering away. It beat at the air like wings, and released from his mouth in a bloody puff of smoke.

"There!" The monster grabbed him by a fistful of hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. He laughed and laughed and laughed, and he laughed along, his heart hurting. "Was that so hard?"

_Kill me. Kill me, kill me, kill me_.

The monster kissed his ear, and then slammed his face into the black gravel. Spiders burst into the air, a thousand thousand, like a wave of twitching specks. And they consumed him with a flood of dancing legs and snapping pincers.

The monster grabbed him, and yanked him from beneath the current of arachnids. Long fingers touched his forehead lightly, stroking it gently— an almost _loving _caress. Tim was sick.

He grabbed the monster's wrist, and the darkness melted into a sudden burst of light. It was painful, and he let out a choking gasp. He looked around, eyes flashing, and they met the apologetic gaze of Dick Grayson. Tim was breathing heavy, and he reached forward, his fingertips brushing Dick's lips fast, gliding over the corned of them to Dick's cheek. He gave a tentative tug.

Dick took Tim's hand in his own. "It's me," Dick said softly. Tim slumped forward, his forehead bumping against Dick's chest. "If that was what you were worried about."

"When did you get here?" Tim murmured, releasing Dick's wrist. The older boy held onto his hand, his thumb tracing Tim's knuckles.

"Just now," Dick admitted. He was smiling. His entire body seemed to be lax, and his smile was infectious and natural. It made his eyes glow warmly. Tim sat up straighter.

"The summit," he said, his throat dry. "You guys did it."

Dick's smile widened, and Tim found himself smiling too, eyes wide and bright. "Kaldur and Artemis are home," Dick said. "And the Reach's alliance with the Light is irreparable."

"That's amazing!" Tim cried, jumping onto his knees. "No one's hurt, right?"

"Nope!" Dick grinned. The he glanced away, and gave a nervous laugh. "Well, Ra's al Ghul got a little impaled, but I figure he'll get over it."

Tim laughed, feeling light and excited. "Yeah, probably," he said, leaning back.

"Speaking of," Dick said, grinning broadly. "Big news. _Good _news."

Tim watched him warily. "Okay…?" he said slowly. "What is it?"

Dick took a deep breath. He was still smiling like an idiot. "I know where Jason is," he said.

Ice filled Tim's belly. "Jason…" Tim said, sitting up straighter. "Wait… like… he's coming home?"

Dick's smile fell a little. "Well…" he sighed. "Not right now. We have to wait until after this Invasion is done for good. I have a feeling we might need a few people for this one."

"Why?" Tim leaned forward, eyes wide. "Where is he? Is he okay? Has he been captured by the Light?"

Dick winced. "No," he said. "Not… captured. He's with the League of Shadows right now."

Tim stared at him blankly. He found himself scrunching his nose in distaste. "_Why_?" he scoffed.

"Kaldur said…" Dick pressed his lips together, his brow furrowing. "He said that Ra's has… _use_ for him. Jason wanted information about his resurrection, and didn't know where else to go. Ra's… has other plans."

"What?" Tim felt panic stir within him. "What kind of plans? Dick, what is he going to do to Jason?"

"I don't know," Dick said honestly, eyes wide. He pressed his hands to Tim's head. "Let's make sure he doesn't get the chance to do it, though."

"The League of Shadows, Dick," Tim whispered. "That's… a risky rescue mission."

"Artemis is talking to Cheshire about it," Dick said. "It's not like we haven't done it before."

"Is he okay?" Tim asked, feeling desperate. "With the Shadows? I mean, like, they haven't hurt him… right?"

"He… should be okay," Dick said, chewing on his lip. Tim stared at him, and Dick quickly amended. "I mean, the last time Kaldur and Artemis saw him, Kaldur had to fight Jason off— But he's totally fine. Jason is tough." Dick sat down beside Tim, slinging his arm around his shoulder. "He's not for the Shadows, though, I'll give you that. Jason's too good, y'know? I mean, he can be a little… rough around the edges. He has his share of nasty qualities. But he could never commit to the shadows."

Tim stared up at Dick, and he bit his tongue. His observation died in his throat, decaying fast and wasting away. _The only person you need to convince is your, Dick_, he was going to say. He couldn't though. He couldn't bear it.

Instead, Tim carefully leaned his head on Dick's shoulder. "I'm happy," Tim said quietly. Dick peered down at him.

"Because we know where Jason is?"

Tim closed his eyes. His own trembling voice echoed in his mind. _Jay_…

"I'm just happy," Tim said. He buried his face in Dick's shoulder, reaching over and circling his arms around his neck. He felt tears sting his eyes, and he squeezed Dick tightly, feeling his entire body begin to tremble. "Really, really happy."

* * *

Jason had been dreaming of home.

He dreamt of spacious, empty rooms, morning light trailing through the tall windows and setting the bare floor on fire. Jason walked along the flames, wood hissing beneath his feet, and with every step he heard a scream. His scream. His last scream, over and over and over. The rooms were all the same. They were echoes of familiar places, a shadow of the beautiful home that Jason loved so much. It was cold, and the flames were frigid, licking at his legs with tongues of ice. He wandered, and he wondered, his mouth parting to call out for Bruce, for Alfred, for Dick, for Tim. He called, and his voice answered in soft resignation.

He saw Dick on the staircase, and he ran to reach him, but the wood rotted beneath him, and Jason shrieked and fell through the chasm. He fell for hours, for days, and the darkness swallowed him up in sweet nothingness. He fell _down_ and _down_ and _**down**_, his screamed drowned by the whooshing of air and a distant roar of an explosion. The world was a flurry of screams and sobs and laughter. Fire unfurled beneath him, and Jason gasped and sank into the flames, feeling them tear through him and rip him apart with heated tendrils, baking his flesh and charring his bone.

He saw wouldbes and cannots as he burned. In the fire, the heat melted his eyes, and filled his empty sockets with visions of life and bright hope and smiles that never fell. He saw himself in the manor, the real manor, and he saw himself rolling across a rug, a small dark haired child kicking him down, and pinning him with his knees. Dick was not far behind, and they were all smiling as Dick tackled the child, squishing him as he flailed. Not far away, Tim was reading on a couch, smiling too, and the fire hissed and spat as it laughed at his hopes and wishes and sadness.

The flames spat him out, crisp and blistered. His skin had crumbled away, and now he was nothing but a jerking skeleton fumbling in the darkness and screaming, screaming for home, for home, please _someone take him home_.

He was shaken awake harshly. He roused with a soft gasp, his mind whirring on overdrive. He was sweating, his cotton shit sticking to his bare chest. He blinked in the darkness, his heart beating hard, and everything seemed so horrible and harsh, he wanted to weep. He rubbed his face with shaky hands, and he spluttered softly as the light burst through the room. The candle had been lit, and Jason blinked away stars as his eyes adjusted.

He propped himself on his elbows, brow furrowing as the brunette's face turned to face him. "Talia…" he said slowly. "What…?"

She tore she sheet off him, and Jason choked on a gasp, scrambling away from her as she grabbed him by the arm. She yanked him to his feet, and he stared at her, mouth falling open. She pressed her palm to his lips, muffling his shout. She leaned close, and he could smell her hair as it tickled his cheeks.

"Listen to me very, very carefully if you want to live," she whispered.

Jason's eyes only grew wider. Something slipped away inside him, a little bit more of his free will, and he found himself nodding. Her hand fell back to her side, and she bent down, scooping up a bundle and shoving it in his chest. Jason grasped it, and he stared at her, desperately searching her expression for an explanation. All she did was let go of his arm.

"Put those on," she said. "Now."

Jason looked down at the bundle of clothes. Then he looked up at Talia. "Is this a trick?" he asked.

Talia's eyes flashed dangerously. "Jason," she hissed. "Dress."

He looked away. Silently, he began to undo the laces of his trousers, dropping the clothes on his cot. He turned away from her as he undressed, feeling awkward and embarrassed. He pretended he didn't, though. He tugged on the new pants, feeling her eyes on his back.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked her, pulling the shirt over his head. She watched him, her dark eyes glittering like coals in the candlelight. When she didn't answer, he turned to face her, eyes glowing in rage. "_Talia_."

She hushed him, stepping forward to fix his shirt. Jason saw how she looked down at her hands, her body taut with anxiety. She was scared. "My father…" she said, her voice quiet. She sighed, and reached under his arm, grasping the overarmor. He blinked, bowing his head as she carefully slipped it around him. "His… meeting, did not go as planned. He is dead."

Jason felt a chill run through him. "Dead," Jason repeated. "Like… dead-dead…?"

Talia looked at him, her black eyes hard. "No, you silly boy," she said, buckling the armor. "His body is not exhausted from the pit— not quite yet. Father expected to live longer." She tightened the straps, her lips twisting in distaste. "A few more years, he said. And this body will be done for. For him, a few years is decades. He expected another trip to the pit, perhaps two."

"What a shame his body can take it," Jason muttered. Talia looked at him, and she grabbed his chin, her fingernails digging deep into his flesh.

"Understand this, Jason," she whispered, her voice cutting deep. "If I did not know for certain that my father could survive this, I would not be here right now, and you would be a dead boy walking."

"You said he's dead," Jason pointed out.

"He is." She slung a gun holster across his chest. "Not for long, however. We must hurry."

"Why exactly is my life in danger again?" Jason asked, yawning. Talia took a step back, and she folded her arms across her chest.

"My father is…" She pressed her lips together, her shoulders squaring. "Was… mad with a fever… he did not know what he was saying." She looked at him, and shook her head. "His last request was to fulfill his contingency plan… in case the pit no longer was an option."

Jason blinked. "What was his contingency plan?" he asked carefully.

Talia's eyes were soft, and she stared at him vacantly. "You," she said, taking his hand. She pulled him from the room, blowing out the candle as she went, and Jason was left with an empty, chilly feeling in his stomach.

"Me," Jason whispered. "_Me_?"

Talia shrugged. "He had various reasons for choosing you," she said, her voice very quiet. "You were trained by my beloved, a son of the Bat. A good face to have to oppose him. A good body that has the capacity to fulfill the regeneration process. My father thought it through. He was going to keep you here, have you work under him, work you until he broke your will. That is the only way something like this could truly work, if you submitted. You would never be so submissive as to let anyone's will consume you. I know this."

"He… wants to steal my body." Jason stared ahead, walking forward without thought. "I… just… _why_?"

"I explained," Talia said. "You were only his contingency, Jason."

"Is that supposed to make me _feel_ better?"

"Shh," Talia hissed. She stopped, poking her head around a corner. She jerked him forward. "Come."

He did. He followed her blindly. They twisted through the halls, avoiding being seen and disappearing into shadows. She led him, and he let her, because he felt helpless otherwise. He had no idea how to take in this information. What did this mean? Where was she taking him? Questions buzzed in his mind, bitter on his tongue.

They were outside before Jason knew it. The night was warm, and he was sweating beneath the levels of Kevlar and armor. The air tasty salty, of brine and tears. Jason hung close to Talia's side as they moved quickly across the rocks. She held him with a vise grip, her entire body tense.

"Talia," Jason found himself saying. "Why do you care so much about what happens to me?"

"You are my responsibility," she said breezily. She lifted her head high. "My beloved is not on Earth. Am I to leave his children orphaned once more? Truly, Jason, do you expect that of me?"

"I don't know," Jason said earnestly. "I don't see you leaping at making sure Tim Drake isn't locked up in Arkham Asylum."

Talia paused, and tilted her head back at him. "Tim Drake has Dick Grayson and Alfred Pennyworth. You have nothing and no one. You are nothing, Jason, nothing but a skinny boy with a good heart, and a leverage over the great Batman."

"You pity me, then," Jason said. "That's it."

"I pity what you are becoming." She shrugged, and Jason let her words sink in._ What am I becoming?_

They moved swiftly through a pass, navigating along jutting rocks to scale their way down a ridge. They went along, hand in hand, and Talia took great care to always test her footing before his. _She's a good mother_, Jason realized. He felt an emptiness grow inside of him as he realized he was leaving her for good. _I thought I hated her, but I was wron_g.

Talia pulled him to a stop, whirling him to face her. She pointed at a dock not so far away. "In ten minutes, that ship will be leaving for the mainland. You will be on it. The ship will dock for about an hour to make mandatory checks, and when it does you need to get off it. Change into something else, and stay hidden. Go home, if that's what you want. Travel. See the world. But stay away from the League of Shadows, Jason. There is nothing for you here but more grief and suffering."

Jason followed her gaze. He found that there was ice in his bones, in his stomach, and the thought of home made him squirm. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything. But he knew that he would be an outsider there. How could he not be, after all he'd done?

He turned back to Talia, his eyes wide. "Come with me," he pleaded. He watched her eyes snap wide. "Come on, Tals, Ra's is dead right now. You don't have to be loyal to a dead man. I can wait here, and you can go back and grab Damian, and we can go together! And Damian can meet his father. And you can be with Bruce. Come on, Talia, please, come with me."

The way she stared at him, he knew he'd wasted his breath. She looked at him, and she pitied. She reached forward, her fingers brushing his cheeks, and she ran her fingers back into his hair. She sighed, bringing his head to her lips, and she kissed his forehead, then his hair.

"Sweet boy," she murmured to him. "I wish I could. But wishing gets us nothing and nowhere, and I know I could never. It's too late now."

Jason's head was resting on her shoulder. "Not for Damian," he said softly.

She looked at him, and for a moment he saw her eyes glistening. She pulled back, and she steeled herself. "My son stays with me," she said firmly.

"Okay, Talia," Jason murmured. He looked at her, and he kissed her cheek. "Thanks, you know. For… for this. Take care of the kid, and for the fuck's sake, just let him have some fun for once."

Talia smiled grimly. "Goodbye, Jason," she said, sliding a signature mask of the League of Shadows over his face. She slung a bag over his shoulder, and squeezed his hand before letting go. After that, she turned around, and walked away without ever looking back. Jason stood for a few moments in shock.

_I'm free_, he thought, moving slowly toward the dock. As he boarded, he felt a nervous knot in his stomach but it slid away fast. _I'm free… and I'm lost_.

* * *

The plan sounded so simple. Tim didn't know why he was so scared. Maybe because there was a thousand ways it could all go wrong, and the Earth would go chrysalis. And as Tim sat in the Batcave, surveying their targets and assessing the roster, he was scared to death of what could come. It was hard to have faith when the odds seemed so miserable.

Tim had wanted to come with Dick. He'd almost begged, but it was clear that the only way Tim was going out today was if he put on a cape. And like hell he was doing that. So Tim sat, and he waited. Apocalypse was waiting beside him, and it filled him with anxiety. It was the feeling of waiting in a storm shelter as a tornado raged overhead, leveling your house and threatening to tear you away.

And now everyone he loved was throwing themselves in the eye of the storm.

_I hate this. _In truth, Tim hated himself for being so weak. He should be out there helping. Why wasn't he? _Because I would mess it up. Because I'm not in the mental state to stop the apocalypse_.

As Tim studied the lineup, he noticed something. "Oh no…" he whispered, his eyes flashing wide.

Dick had no partner. And that was Tim's fault.

"Crap." Tim groaned, hanging his head back. "_Shit_!"

Tim knew why Dick had done it. Logically, he was the most capable of working alone on this type of mission. However, Tim knew the danger of going alone. And he couldn't bear the thought of it. He sat, a victim of his own musings, and he thought he might go insane just sitting there. The world around him was caving in, and there was an unsettling amount of panic that came with the thought of losing Dick.

He called Stephanie, not knowing who else to trust.

"I need you to get here as soon as possible," he said, his voice urgent. "You remember the telephone booth I told you about? Go to it. To access the zeta tube, say Batcave-override-TD-six."

"I'm coming," she said, sounding a little uncertain. "What's going on? That stuff on the news—"

"Is going to get worse," Tim said. "Fast."

He could almost see her bite her lip. "Okay," she breathed. "I'll be right there."

As he waited for her, he tried to keep himself occupied. He went through the minimal amount of details Dick had left for him seven times, and then he paced around the cave, acutely aware of how vulnerable he felt. He was so scared, so so so scared, and there was laughter resonating inside his head. The ticking of a clock hit him with a sharp vigor, smashing into his thoughts and breaking him apart. It was like he was falling apart, like the threads of his thoughts were unraveling in sweet, bloody strands. Honey and blood leaked from his deteriorating mind, and he pressed his hands to his mouth, wondering how the world had gotten so skewed.

He could have done it himself. Maybe. He wasn't quite sure. He saw himself, his reflection, and it screamed at him. He saw his eyes grow wide, bloodshot and his mouth hung open as he screeched and cried and snarled. Tim shook his head, shook his broken thoughts until they rattled in his skull. He hated this. He hated and hated, and wondered how long it would be until he hated himself too much to bear any longer.

The sadness was an echo, and his fear was seeping through his skin, crawling and festering. Wings beat at his muscles, and pincers tore at his veins. He was falling apart, and he swayed, hating and hating and hating. Thoughts of Stephanie were drowned by the ever-deafening ticking of a far away clock. The laughter was singing, lulling, and Tim hated. Oh, god, did he hate.

He slammed his palms against the desk, and he screamed. His head was roving, his body shaking, and he couldn't understand what had brought this on. Why he was so scared, why he hated so much, why he just couldn't get a hold of himself. He felt like there was nothing left inside of him. No _Tim _left. Like he'd been hollowed out, and all that was left inside the pitted cavity was hatred and fear and snarling laughter.

Stephanie found him hiding under the desk.

"Tim…?" Her face appeared like a beacon, her hair curling around her face, and her eyes sparkling curiously. Steph wasn't scared. Steph never hated. And Tim found himself raising his eyes to hers, his lips trembling.

"Steph," he mumbled. She pushed Batman's chair out of the way, and knelt down. She reached for him, and he flinched, recoiling into darkness. She stared, her eyes going wide and worried. She let her fingers hover, and then she reached again.

"Tim," she said, sounding scared. But that was silly. Stephanie didn't get scared. "Come here. Come on, it's okay."

Tim trembled. The ticking sound was beating at his head. He jumped as a peal of laughter boomed through the cave, and he curled into himself. "Don't you hear it?" he gasped, his eyes darting wildly. "Steph, please tell me you hear that."

Steph's fingers were white in the shadows. White and skinny, and she reached for him with desperation in her eyes. "Tim, take my hand," she said. "Please, please take my hand."

Tim stared up at her. "But—" he rasped, averting his eyes. "He's— he's out there, Steph, I can't, I—"

"No one is out here but me," Stephanie said. "And Alfred. Alfred's here too, Tim."

_Nothing bad happens when Alfred is around_, Tim reasoned. Shakily, he reached for her hand. She grabbed it, and yanked him out from under the desk. And he found himself clinging to her, his face buried in her shoulder, and he was shaking so badly that he could barely think. His bones felt brittle, and he muffled a sob against Stephanie's neck.

She was holding him just as tightly, clinging to him just as he clung to her. He could feel her breathing against his hair, and her fingers grasping at his back. His shirt had hitched up, and her fingertips were grazing whip scars, and he shuddered as the cold memories filled him with horror and disgust. But Stephanie was so warm and safe, and she could never hurt him. He could feel her presence slither into his mind, and collect him in a gentle rhythm. She stitched him back together, and he was so happy to have her there, he couldn't function.

"Oh my god," Tim gasped, choking on laughter as he pulled back from her. He couldn't let go though. "I'm… I'm so sorry, that was—"

Stephanie smiled, wiping away his tears with the pad of her thumb. Her smile was infectious, and he felt himself growing warmer. "Don't be sorry," she said, her knuckles lingering in his cheek. He blinked at her as she dragged her fingers across his skin. "It's okay, I get it."

"I don't know why I'm so scared," he choked, taking her hand. He scrubbed at his eyes, and she leaned closer, resting her forehead against his. "I should… I should be stronger than this. I want to be stronger, but I _can't_, I—"

"No one expects you to be anything more than who you are," Steph whispered. Tim slumped. He could feel her breath against his cheek, and it was warm and sweet.

"Steph," he whispered, looking at her. Her face was tinted pink, and her skin was hot to the touch. For a moment, Tim thought she might have a fever, but then he realized how stupid he was_. She's blushing_, he thought. He felt his own face flush in response "I don't even know who I am anymore."

Her eyes softened. "I know," she said, straightening up. The hand he was holding cupped his cheek, bringing his head up. "You're Tim Drake. You're the sweetest person I've ever met, and the strongest too. You're strong, Tim, you really are. If I was in your place, I don't know what I'd do. I don't think I'd be able to get up in the morning. You're so strong, and I know you don't feel like you are, but you've gotta listen, okay?" She took both his hands, covering them with her own. She traced his knuckled with the tips of her fingers, and he felt the corners of his lips twitch in contentment. "All of us— me, and Alfred, and Dick, and Barbara? We all know who you are. The only person you have to convince is yourself."

He felt tears prickling his eyes. "Why is that so hard?" he whispered.

She looked at him, and she shook her head. "I don't know," she said, her voice thin. "I don't know…"

He took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said, rising to his feet. "But now I need you to do something for me."

She looked up at him, startled. She looked up at Alfred, who was standing close by, silent and observing. Stephanie looked back up at Tim. "Sure," she said, picking herself up. "Anything."

_She trusts me too much_. The thought comforted and terrified him. He pressed his lips together, and he pointed to the monitor. "The Justice League and the Team are working together right now in order to save the world." Tim turned to look at the list, and he felt bitter. Dick could have found someone. "They're working in teams of two to spread out across the world. But… they're one person short."

"Robin," Stephanie said carefully. She stepped up beside Tim, looking up at the screen in wonder. "Nightwing's alone."

"I'm scared," Tim admitted, his eyes lowering in shame. "I don't want to lose him too."

Stephanie stared at him, and then she glanced quickly at Alfred. She smiled weakly, and took Tim's hand. "What do you need me to do?"

Tim turned to look at her. His heart was beating hard, and he took a deep breath. "Be Robin," he said. He watched her face transform, her eyes going wide and her lips parting in a gape.

"Tim, I…" She looked away, looking alarmed and confused. "I… I mean, I don't know… I thought… I mean, _you're_ Robin, I can't—"

"I'm not Robin," Tim said. "And yes. You can. You've done it before." That memory left him bitter.

"That was a total fluke!" She ran her fingers through her hair, looking desperate. "I didn't mean anything by it, I just wanted to catch my dad! You know that. I… I mean, saving the world? That's a huge thing. I don't know if I can…"

"You _can,_" Tim said. "I know you can. Tell me you can."

Stephanie looked up at him, eyes shining with shock and fear_. Stupid, Stephanie doesn't get scared_. "I can," Stephanie said in a small voice. When Tim smiled, she shook her head. "Why… why me? Why Robin? I can go in a different suit, if you've got one, I mean…"

"Stephanie," Tim said gently, "you grew up in Gotham. You get it. Robin is more than just a person. Robin is _hope_. I could never be Robin now. But you?" Tim hoped he wasn't shaking, because he could feel tears in his eyes. "Steph, you give _me_ hope. Out of the two of us, the choice of Robin is clear. And right now, the world needs Robin."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "Cute," she said quietly. She took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yeah, okay, let's do this."

Tim grinned down at her. She grinned back, and then quickly excused herself to change. Alfred stepped up behind Tim, and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

"Master Tim," he said, "are you certain?"

"She can do it," Tim said. "She'll protect Dick, and Dick will protect her."

Alfred watched him, and he smiled. He nodded. "Yes, that sounds adequate. But you forget, Miss Stephanie is untrained."

"She's trained enough for this."

Alfred tilted his head, his smile knowing. "You trust her very much, sir."

Tim shrugged, and sat down in Batman's chair. "Don't you?" he asked, feeling his mind finally settle. He closed his eyes, and smiled to himself.

"I do." Alfred stood beside Tim, looking up at the monitor. "She's a very inspiring young woman."

_Maybe I should thank the Reach for introducing us_, Tim thought, his smile widening at the thought. Tim had a feeling they wouldn't be seeing much of the Reach after today.

"Hey, Tim?" Stephanie called. She stepped out in Jason's old costume, and Tim couldn't help but laugh. It was too loose around her torso, but otherwise it seemed to morph to fit her body. Tim knew she'd chosen it to avoid cutting up her arms, like she had last time. "Are you sure it's okay that I'm wearing this?"

_You should have stuck with Dick's_, Tim wanted to say. Instead, he said, "Yeah, don't worry about it." He prayed Bruce never saw her in it. Tim pulled a communicator from a drawer, and he stood up, motioning her to him. When she came close, he pressed it into her glove. "Put this in your ear. I'm going to try and guide you through what to do, since it's your first time really in the field. Also, I don't want you to go in alone."

"Thanks," she said, pressing it into her ear. "What else?"

"Run down of your pouches," Tim said, pointing to her utility belt. "It's mostly just crap. Strategically, you should know what you're throwing, but we don't have time to go through it, so if it looks like it explodes, be careful. Oh, and try not to touch the grappling hook if you don't know how to use it."

"I know how to use it!" Steph looked mildly offended. "I got around Gotham all by myself with one of these babies before, you know!"

"Miraculously, if that was your first time." He smiled at her, but she merely scowled. "Uh… oh!" Tim spun, snapping his fingers. He spun around, and grabbed the mechanism he'd left on the desk a few days previous. "Um, this—" He rattled the case, "— is a bo staff. Just hook this onto the back of your belt, and then when you need it pop it out. You'll feel it extend. Trust me, if you want to beat the shit out of someone, this is what you want to use."

"Cool," she breathed, snatching it from his fingers. She looked down, searching for a space to put it.

"Uh, your back," Tim said. He bit his lip. "Um, the small of your back, that's where I kept it."

"Oh." She handed it back, and picked up her cape. "Well, buckle it! We're on a pressed schedule right?"

Tim glanced at Alfred, who was hiding an amused smile. "R-right," Tim said. He carefully attached the container, pulling his hands back as soon as possible. Her cape fell, and he flushed bright red.

"Okay," Stephanie said, spinning to face him. "Is… is that it?"

Tim swallowed. "Yeah, I think so… oh." He winced. "You're hair. Uh…" He bent down, rummaging through one of the drawers. He remembered Barbara keeping a stash of bobbypins close by, just in case. He found the box, and felt relieved. "Here we go."

"Tim," Stephanie said as he quickly pinned back the hair framing her face. "What if this goes horribly wrong?"

"It won't," Tim said firmly. He had to believe it.

She looked at him, and then she smiled and nodded. "Okay," she said happily. She leaned close, and he felt her lips press against his cheek and linger there. Longer than her knuckles had. "I won't mess up. I swear, I'll do whatever you tell me, and I won't mess up."

"Just don't die, okay?" Tim whispered. He hugged her, and she squeezed him hard, nodding against his shoulder.

"I promise," she said. "I _swear_. No one's dying today."

Tim stared down at her, and he smiled. She made him happy. She was like Jason, only so much happier, and her happiness was infectious. Her being happy made him happy, and he couldn't help but love her for that. He kissed her forehead, and he could feel her smiling against his neck.

"Be careful," he said. "And don't let anyone patronize you for doing this. They can blame me later."

"God bless you," she laughed, taking a step back. Tim dropped down into Batman's chair, and set up the zeta tube. "You'll be there? The entire time?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "How do you feel about Australia?"

She gave an anxious laugh. "Love it," she said, tossing her loose hair over her shoulder. She took another careful step back. Her domino mask made her face seem very calm. "I hope I see a kangaroo, oh my gosh."

"Try not to get distracted," Tim said, turning toward the monitor. "I'm placing you in Sydney. You might end up being there before Dick, since, like, everyone only just left about fifteen minutes ago." Dick had promised to let Tim know when everyone dispatched. Even those who used zeta tubes had to navigate through the cities, or even out into rural areas. "You don't have the equipment to complete the mission, so wait for Dick if he's not there."

"Nightwing," Stephanie said, nodding. "I mean… I shouldn't say Dick, right? Because… it's a secret?"

"Exactly." Tim nodded. "Uh… can you ride a motorcycle, by any chance?"

She perked up at that.

* * *

Jason had been in Tokyo. The boat ride to Japan had been an easy trip in comparison to the one where he'd been undercover. The fact that he hadn't been caught still threw him. _Holy shit_, Jason had thought as he fled into the port city, rushing into the nearest shop and trading in his garb. Talia had given him a few thousand dollars in various different currencies, which was thoughtful of her. Jason wandered around after his escape, keeping his face carefully hidden with a hood and a scarf.

_Home_ was his first clear thought. God, all he wanted was to go home. And he decided he would. After contemplation, he realized he had nowhere else to go. Living alone was an option, but Jason had no taste for driving himself further into insanity. _I'll tell them what I did_, he decided_. And if they cast me out for it, that's that. I'm out_. It was the simplest conclusion. How he hadn't come to it earlier, he hadn't a clue.

Japan was beautiful. It was nature and steel and a pretty world of its own, a world bustling faster than Gotham ever could. There were way more people too. Jason found that he liked it. He liked the freedom of running around the overpopulated city, chatting amiably with shopkeepers, letting himself soak in everything he could. He learned how to better speak Japanese, how to correct his dialect. He learned slang from street kids, and smoked with the gang, and taught them words in English. Mostly swears. Colorful swears.

"_Fuckwad_," a boy with a pierced nose, and a flirtatious streak. His name was Aoki. Jason knew it was his last name, but it was easier to remember than his first name, which was Hiroyoshi, or… Hideyoshi? Jason didn't know, but he decided Yoshi was not the type of nickname the random gang boy would appreciate. So Aoki it was. "That's the shit, yeah? _Fuckwad_."

"_Hai,_" Jason said. "It's kinda like… ah, shit… it's just something really rude to call someone."

"You, Jei," said Aoki, "are a total _fuckwad_."

The rest of the gang roared with laughter, and Jason took a drag on his cigarette. He'd told them his name was Jay, and they'd gotten it pretty right. There wasn't really a way to fuck it up in Japanese. It just sounded a lot sharper than it actually was.

"I'm flattered," Jason said, smirking. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Not frequently," Aoki admitted, his dark eyes bright. "I do kiss _other_ things though."

A younger boy, a mousy little brown haired child, piped up, "Ass, he means. He kisses ass."

"Frequently!" Aoki chirped, smiling at Jason. "Figuratively, and literally."

Jason found himself laughing. "Do you?" Jason asked, smoke trailing from his lips. "That sounds entertaining."

"Don't rile him, Jei," the little boy, Riki, said quietly. "He can get clingy."

"Clingy?" Aoki tilted his head. "Nah, I'm just _persistent_. Jei, ever seen Hachiko?"

"The statue or the movie?" Jason let his cigarette dangle from his mouth.

"The statue, obviously," snickered a boy with darker skin. His name was Keiji, and he was the tallest of the group. Also, Jason was pretty sure he was German. Or lived in Germany at one point. His accent threw Jason off big time.

"Then no," Jason said. "The movie was great though. My brother cried." Not true. Jason had been the one who had cried, and Dick had tried to coddle him afterward, but Jason had been a little too ashamed to take it. _I'm not crying, you piece of shit, get off me! _Jason smiled a little at the memory.

"Oh? Well, we'll show you." Aoki took Jason's hand and dragged him forward. "By the way, I never asked. How long are you staying?"

"I don't know," Jason answered honestly. "I didn't mean to stay so long, but I like it here." _It's like home but ten times livelier_.

"Well we like you here too," Aoki said. Jason heard Keiji groan, and another boy gave a barking laugh.

"You only like me because I bought you cigarettes," Jason teased.

"I don't smoke, actually," Riki said, bouncing idly behind them. "And I like you fine."

Jason smiled back at him. For a moment, Jason saw a smaller boy. A colder boy with hard blue eyes, and a confused outlook on life. Jason forced himself to turn back to Aoki.

"So," Aoki said as they fell into a crowd crossing an incredible, gigantic street. There was a thrum of noise around them. "If you did stay…?"

Jason shrugged. "I don't know." He looked around, acutely aware that the boy was still holding his hand. _Would it be weird if he kissed me_, he found himself thinking. _Should I just go with it?_ He honestly didn't know. Or care very much. He hadn't had time when he was younger to really explore his sexuality, and recently he just realized how fucking apathetic he was about it in general. He didn't feel any particular attraction to the boy, not really, but it would be interesting, and Jason just had to wonder.

The sky was growing very dark. The air had grown chilly, and Jason sensed a storm. _No, not a storm_. Jason had to stop in the middle of the crosswalk to crane his neck upward. "What is that?" he asked aloud.

"Lightning," Keiji growled, clapping Jason's back. "Come on, before we get poured on."

"That's not a normal storm," Jason said. His eyes widened. In English, he hissed, "Shit. _Shit_!"

"Jei?"

"Go." Jason tore away from them, bolting forward. He called behind him. "Get inside, get underground if you can! Someplace without windows!"

"What's going on?" Riki gasped. "Jei!"

"Tornadoes!" Jason shouted back. He looked up at the flurry of funnel clouds. "Lots and lots of tornadoes."

Then he pushed through the crowd. He could hear Aoki crying, "Where are you _going_, _fuckwad_?" Jason didn't answer. He was too busy thinking. _Not normal, not normal, definitely not normal_. Some kind of villain? Jason tried to think if the Justice League had anyone from Japan, but he was pretty sure they didn't.

Jason rammed into people on his way into investigation. He didn't have much on him. His rucksack with all his possessions was kept hidden under his red hoodie most of the time, and he did have a gun in it. A gun, five knives, and a can of mace. What good did that do him against half a dozen fucking tornadoes?

Jason ran past the dog statue, Hachiko, and stumbled, feeling the winds begin to drag at him. The tornadoes had touched down. People were screaming, rushing into shops. Jason noticed many of them flee into the underpass, and Jason bit his lip. He had no idea how to fight this. He could only hope to find the source. He found himself flying, his feet clapping against the ground, and he hoped it was something simple, like a wind villain.

It wasn't.

"What the fuck is this?" Jason cried over the snarl of winds. The Tornadoes whipped around him. The floating device was definitely the cause, there was no second guessing. Jason could feel the charge it was giving off. So what the fuck was it, and why was it in Tokyo?

Jason roved the device, digging around his bag for something, anything that might help. There wasn't much he could do though. He withdrew a knife, edging closer to device. Something wasn't right here. He had no idea what the device was, and he could barely recognize the technology. It wasn't anything like Red Tornado. So what the fuck was it?

He yelped as a pulsing purple beam shot past him. Two more followed, and Jason flung himself away, cartwheeling into a steadier position. There were bugs in the sky. Giant fucking flying machines, and they were shooting right at him. Jason found himself locked in a dance, flinging himself around bushes to avoid being hit. He stabbed his knife into the mulch, digging through his rucksack. If he'd known about this, he would have bought a grenade somewhere along the line.

He shook his head. There was no way he'd be able to shoot down the machines with a handgun. Maybe if it was specially made, but basically he was carrying a piece of shit, and it was only affective on people. Not machines. Jason craned his neck over the bush, snatching three of his knives and slipping them between his fingers. He dove over the bush, carefully dodging in and between the sharp volley of purple shots, and he got close. Too close. And he flicked his wrist, his arm flinging out. The knives went flying, and Jason flipped away as the steel collided with the inner cavity of its gun. The entire revolving barrel blew off, and the beetle went shuddering. Another knife was in Jason's fingers before he could think. _Beetle_, Jason thought, wide eyed as the machine flew off balance. _Wait a minute_…

Something whirred behind him. Jason threw himself to the ground, listening as an arrow thrummed overhead. Jason swore softly, tugging his hood over his face and jumping to his feet. Over the roar of the winds, Jason could hear a familiar voice directly behind him.

"Nu's got the target. And something else."

"Arsenal, the egg!"

Jason closed his eyes. _Of course_. Jason weighed his options. He could let them know it was him, and be brought home now… or he could run. Jason could feel Arsenal's gun trained at his back. And Jason decided quickly. It was a stupid decision. Impulsive and self-serving, betraying all sense of logic. Jason spun, and his knife sliced against Arsenal's prosthetic arm. It clinked, and for a moment Jason's face was bare to the boy. The whites of his mask went wide.

"Red Hood," he whispered. Jason saw Red Arrow not so far away, an arrow trained on him. And Jason, feeling the sting of fear plague him. His instincts took over. He was doomed to run and run and run, and he knew it. So he ran. He skidded away, throwing his body into the suck of the tornadoes. It spat him out, not particularly holding him well, and so he ran. He ran fast, and he ducked another arrow. He could hear Arsenal snarling at Red Arrow to stop. Not long after, as Jason was fleeing, all the tornadoes stopped.

_That was fucking weird_, Jason thought as he reached his hotel, panting and shaking.

* * *

"Stephanie," Tim said carefully after the communicator had gone silent. "Did it work? Did you deactivate the MFD?"

Stephanie's voice came in, clipped and bothered. "_Yeah, it's pretty done for. Does Nightwing know how to say thank you? I think I deserve a thank you_."

"Thank you," Tim said, smiling to himself. He drummed a pen against the desk.

"_Not from you_," Steph said. He could almost see her pouting. "_Nightwing is looking at me like I just broke a vase, oh my gosh, what do I do_?"

"Stare him down." Tim chewed on his pen cap, observing the map in front of him. The squads were doing well, as far as Tim could see. Alfred was standing behind him, observing with an amused smile. "Trust me, he's not that scary."

"_He said you're not scary_," Steph declared very loudly. "_Do you always try and intimidate people who are just trying to help you? Or is this a recent thing_?"

There was a silence afterward, and Tim glanced up at Alfred. The old butler merely shrugged. "Master Dick is not more than a boy himself, you know," Alfred said softly. "You can't blame him for reacting like this. It's not him rejecting Miss Stephanie."

"It's Batman," Tim said quietly. Dick had donned the cowl a few times, but it never really clicked. Not until now. Had Batman gotten under Dick's skin at last? Tim leaned forward, speaking into his microphone. "Steph, he's only acting like Batman would act."

Stephanie gave a short snort. "_You're not Batman_," Stephanie shot. Tim winced. Not the way he would have handled it. "_And you're not invincible! Those buggy thingies? There's no way you could have taken them both out on your own _and_ disabled the MFD_!"

Tim looked up at Alfred. "She has a point," Tim said.

"Yes," Alfred said. "But, sadly, so does Master Dick."

Tim frowned. "What's Dick's point?" he asked, sinking into Batman's chair. "I was in Steph's place a few years ago with Batman. What is he trying to say?"

"Perhaps he's scared," Alfred said gently. "After all, Master Tim, the last two children who claimed the name Robin fell victim to awful circumstance. And in the end, they chose to cast off the title."

Alfred's words stung like a whip. Tim stared up at the monitor, and he felt his fear in his bones. It all seemed so stupid, but it haunted him all the same. He was haunted by laughter, and he was haunted by smiles. He was haunted by happiness that had died, and now he was left with his own empty shell.

Tim pressed his fingers to the mic. "Steph," he said quietly. "Tell him I begged you to be Robin. Tell him what I told you."

Stephanie seemed uncertain of this. "_Are you sure_…?"

"Yeah, tell him."

She gave a small sigh. She still had a finger on her communicator so Tim and Alfred could hear her speak. "_He told me to tell you that he asked me to be Robin. Because he can't be right now. Because the world needs Robin, because Robin is hope, and he needs some hope_." Stephanie's voice was very soft, and almost at a loss, as if she barely understood what she was saying.

_You're my hope_, Tim wanted to shout. _Both of you are, why can't you see that?_

Tim blinked as the comm was disconnected for a short second. And then Dick's voice came, soft and small and sighing. "_You're right_," Dick said. "_Robin _is_ hope. But you don't seem to get that… just because you choose not to be Robin anymore… it doesn't mean that hope is gone._"

He felt Alfred's hand upon his shoulder, and Tim took a deep breath. He pressed the button, his fingers quaking. "I know," he said. "But I can't give anyone hope if I feel hopeless, can I?"

Dick gave a short, bitter laugh. "_Maybe not_," he said. "_Okay. I'll admit it, Steph, I'm not really being totally fair._"

"_Who'da thunk it_?" Stephanie replied, her voice very loud. Tim knew now why he hadn't heard Dick's replies before now. He'd been speaking very softly to her. Steph was too bold to keep her voice down.

"_Epsilon still needs to check in_," Dick said. "_I'm going to go do that now. Steph, you're coming with me_."

"Um, okay," Tim said, rocking back and forth. "See you at home, then?"

"_Count on it_."

Tim sat back as the comm was turned off. He pressed his lips together thinly, and he looked up at Alfred. His stomach was twisting horribly, and he didn't know why. He was worried. "They'll be okay," Tim said slowly. "Right?"

"Of course, sir." Alfred smiled, and mussed Tim's hair gently. Tim smiled back, leaning into his touch. Alfred seemed to know exactly what calmed Tim, and just when to utilize the knowledge. "Though, how _will _you explain Miss Stephanie to Master Bruce when he returns?"

Tim slid the chair back and forth pensively. And then he shrugged. "He'll have to come around eventually, right?"

Alfred gave him a look that told Tim that no. No he did not have to.

Tim spent the next hour and a half waiting. He waited, and he waited, and he waited. Anxiety crept up on him, and he tried to push it away, but the fact that Stephanie and Dick were remaining silent worried him. He'd gone upstairs with Alfred after a little while, and ate some toast, and watched the news with the volume turned up. He felt oddly content. His battle with anxiety was level. He trusted Stephanie and Dick to be all right. He _did_.

"It looks like they did it," Tim said. The day was gone, and night had splashed across Gotham City.

"Yes, it does," Alfred said, nodding beside Tim. "Though, was there ever any doubt?"

Tim flushed bright red. "Well…" he said, wringing his hands nervously. "Well, maybe a little. But then again, I haven't really been… the biggest optimist lately, so…"

Alfred gave a shrug. "To each his own," he said, giving Tim a reassuring smile. Tim smiled back, and he closed his eyes. _That's it_, he thought happily. _That's the last of the Invasion_. The thought made his muscles tingle. Things were finally looking up.

That was, of course, before Stephanie called.

Tim had answered without thinking. He saw her number, and he'd answered. How could he not? She often called him at random, never really talking, just spewing words to fill the time. Tim liked that. It made him feel wanted, because she was talking to him when she didn't have to. Now, however, it was much different. Her voice wasn't sweet and light and happy. It was breathy, reedy, desperately holding itself together when it seemed like it was all going to fall apart. Tim swallowed a lump in his throat.

"_Tim_," she choked out. "_H-hey, um_…"

"What happened?" Tim wasn't sure if he wanted to know, truly.

"_I… well_…" She took a deep breath. "_Oh, god… I… I wasn't… supposed to be there, y'know, I… I was in the bioship. They were going to take me home, but I… I wanted to stay. Just a l-little while longer, you know? And then… there was another MFD, Tim, it… it went chrysalis_."

Tim found himself going numb. "What?" he asked, his voice flat. "Stephanie… Steph, it's—" He nearly choked on his words. "It's okay." His heart was beating hard. Was she scared? Stephanie didn't get scared. But Tim was beginning to realize that maybe he was wrong, and he only wanted to believe she didn't get scared.

"_No_!" Stephanie cried. "_No it isn't! They took me home, and I… I feel so awful, Tim, and I… I didn't even know him, I don't even know_…"

"Steph," Tim breathed. "What happened?"

"_K—_" She took a sharp breath. "_Kid Flash_."

Cold fingers were teasing Tim's stomach, tearing it open and spilling his guts upon the floor. "What about Kid Flash?"

Stephanie was silent for a few moments. "_Hey, uh_…" She sounded a little calmer, and a little more nervous. "_Is Dick there? Did he come back_?"

"No, not yet," Tim said slowly.

"_Did_…" He could almost hear her biting her lip. "_Did he… check in at all_?"

"No," Tim said. "Steph, what happened to Kid Flash?"

"_I… Tim, I don't want to be the one to tell you, I thought… I thought Dick might have already, that's why I called, I just wanted someone to talk to about it, I didn't_…"

"Steph…" Tim felt his body go numb. There was something cackling in the corner, snarling and twitching, motley fabric ripping and fluttering all around the room in waves. "What happened to Kid Flash?"

Tim listened to her breathe. It was the softness of her breath that kept him from screaming. "_He's dead_."

Tim had been expecting it. But expecting the blow did nothing to soften it. He curled up against the couch, his body coiling into itself. _Dead_, Tim thought. _Wally. Dead. Wally's dead, dead Wally, Wally is_… "Oh," Tim said. His voice was vacant. He pressed his lips together, and chewed at his skin until he felt it tear. The blood tasted coppery in his mouth. "How?"

"_I_…" She sounded tired, and distraught, and confused. "_I'm not really… sure, he just… stopped… being_…?" She gave a sharp, angry laugh. "_Oh, god, I'm so stupid. It was too far away to see, and no one was explaining it. He just stopped existing, Tim, how does that happen_?"

It must have been horrible. Tim could only imagine, and he did. His imagination took hold of him, shaking him to his core. "You shouldn't have been there," Tim blurted.

"_Wha_…?"

"I made you be Robin today," Tim said. He was panicking. "It's my fault you saw that. You shouldn't have seen that. That shouldn't have happened. Why did that happen…?"

"_I… I dunno, Tim, I_…" She sounded so sad, Tim's phone slipped from his fingers. He watched them shake pitifully, and the colorful drapes of torn fabric fell across them. Bold reds and sweet yellows and sour greens. Tim's blood, and Tim's bruises, and Tim's vomit.

Tim felt disgusted with himself. He pushed away from Alfred as he moved close, reaching for Tim's shaking hands. Tim ran, fighting through the flutter of ribbon, through the shrieks of laughter, and he fled up the stairwell, half collapsing on the steps and gasping, rasping, panting, praying. He was haunted by long, cold fingers, which ran across his skin and dug into his flesh. Something kissed his ear, and whispered, "Aren't you just _disgusting_?"

Tim choked on his own laughter, and swallowed it with a gasp. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no, no."

Wally's voice echoed in his head. _"You're strong. You're good. Hell, Tim, you gave _Batman_ hope! And happiness? That's something that'll come back. You just gotta let people love you, and you gotta love them back. Being happy takes _you_. And it takes everyone around you. But keep your chin up, kay?"_ Tim buried his face in his hands. What did any of that matter now, anyway?

"It doesn't," the monster snickered. "It never mattered, don't you _see_?"

Tim scrambled away from it, snarling up at its gangly form. "Shut _up_!" Tim half stumbled, half crawled up the steps, his body jerky and shaking. He coughed, trying to contain his laughter. He pushed through the hall, his head slamming against the wall, and he lurched onto his back, his head lolling. _Oh, god, what's wrong with me_. "Go away," Tim murmured. "Please go away…"

He ran, his feet guiding him poorly. He felt along the walls, blinking rapidly in the darkness. He found his door, and swung it open, switching on the light and slipping inside. He shut the door, his eyes closing in relief, and he took a deep breath. He breathed. In and out, and let the oxygen calm him. His head was spinning. His heart was racing. There were tears in his eyes. _You're good_, Tim thought. _You're strong_.

"Oh, bird boy," said a sweet, disgusting, rasping, _lulling _voice. Tim's eyes snapped open. And there he stood. "Do you _really_ believe that?"

The Joker. The Joker. _The Joker_. Tim had tried _so hard_ to forget him. But here he stood, clear as day, his face a nightmare in itself, pale and flaking and stretched and exaggerated. It was horrible, and it was familiar, and oh god… Tim could smell him. The scent was a mingling of decay and something sweet, a mask of flowers to hide the stench of death. There was a marigold blooming on the Joker's lapel.

"Not real," Tim whispered, tears stinging his eyes. He watched the Joker throw his head back and laugh. The door at his back began to shake, jostling and quaking, and Tim felt the tears on his cheeks. "Not real, not real, _not real_…"

The Joker's long, cold fingers grazed Tim's cheek, pressing against his tears. The Joker's crooked yellow teeth were bare to him. "I'm as real as you are, J. J.," cooed the monster. Tim heard himself scream, and earsplitting shriek of horror that he couldn't fathom. He shoved the Joker away, reaching for something, anything in his grasp to throw at the smug bastard's face.

Tim watched his star lamp crash into the wall and shatter. The Joker watched it with raised eyebrows. "Wow," said the Joker. "That _really_ hurt!"

Tim's sobs choked him. He clamped his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide. He shook his head, hiccupping, and he gripped his head, gasping and coughing, laughter slipping. "No," he prayed, "please, god, no, let me be me, please, let me be—" The door burst open, and Tim dove for it. The Joker had been in the way, but now he wasn't. Now he was in the corner, laughing his ass off, and shrieking nothings at Tim.

When Tim ran through the door, he rammed into something, and went flying. He crumpled against the hallway floor, his chin slamming against the wood, and he gasped, scrambling to get back up. He felt hands on him, and he screamed, "Get off, get off, get _away_!" Where had Alfred gone? Tim trembled, his tears running hot against his cheeks, and he stumbled into a wall, half blind from the tears. "Alfred…?" he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut. "Dick…?"

He pushed off, running forward and letting his feet guide him once again. This time they were steadier. They led him to the door of Bruce's room, and Tim slipped inside, slamming the door hard behind him. The entire room shook, and the darkness hissed at Tim. It felt like he was walking into a tomb. Tim stumbled in the dark until he found the bedside lamp. The room flickering alight, and it looked sad. Untouched for months, but no dust had gathered. Alfred made sure of that.

Tim sat down on the bed, staring at his shaky hands. He watched droplets of tears splash against his pallid skin. Tim laid back, relief washing over him as he took in the scent of the room. It was so familiar, Tim felt safe basking in it. He was dizzy, and his head was pounding, and he was shaking so bad he couldn't move. When he calmed enough, he pulled his legs onto the bed, and he curled up into the cool blanket.

He must have fallen asleep. A sweet, dreamless sleep, because the next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder. He bolted upright, and he found himself screaming. He squirmed, and twitched, writhing against the touch and snarling, "Get _away_!"

"Tim." The voice was familiar, but only as dreams were. Hazy, far off, and so sweet that it couldn't be real. Tim blinked in the darkness. The light had gone out in his sleep. He found himself scooting steadily away from the silhouette, his eyes widening in distrust. "It's alright now. It's me."

"No," Tim whispered.

Bruce's face shifted in the darkness. He looked almost… confused. "Yes," Bruce said. "Why do you say no?"

"You're gone," Tim mumbled, pulling his knees to his chest. "Everyone keeps… going… and I… I don't know what's real anymore…" Tim winced as the light flickered on, and it illuminated the fresh tears on his cheeks.

Bruce reached forward, pausing when Tim flinched. And then he wiped away the tear tracks, his thumb callused and smooth. "If I wasn't real, could I do that?" Bruce asked. His voice was low, but very soft.

Tim found himself sneering. "The Joker did," he hissed, jerking his face away. _I'm alone_, he told himself_. Wake up, Tim_. He watched Bruce's eyes narrow.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "When?"

"I… don't know." Time felt so fuzzy lately. "A few hours ago, in my room. He wasn't real. You're not real. What even _is_ real anymore?"

Bruce's dark eyes flickered. "How did you know the Joker wasn't real?" Bruce asked.

"The real Joker is currently in a body cast," Tim said, his voice sounding small and bored. "And besides, it's not like he's not always here anyway. You're the new one. Am I dreaming?" Tim rubbing his eyes furiously.

"No, Tim." Bruce was watching him, very careful not to touch him again. Tim felt a chill. _Not real_, he reminded himself. _Not real_. "Dick… didn't tell me much. He was already… upset, so I didn't push him. He told me that Jason… left, and that you were tortured. Did anything else happen?"

_What's your _name_?_

Tim swallowed uneasily. "You're not real," Tim murmured, pressing his face to his knees. "I don't have to answer anything."

"Tim." Bruce's voice took a sharp quality then, sharp and cold. Tim jumped, and he looked up at him, tears gathering in his eyes. "I need to know. What did that bastard do to you?"

Tim was shaking. He looked down at his hands, white and skinny. Very carefully, he unzipped his sweater. He tossed it aside, and Bruce followed his arms. He took one, snatching it by the wrist, and his eyes took in the sight of the pale raised scars overlapping across his arms. Bruce let his hand drop, and he closed his eyes.

"Tim—"

"Wait."

Tim gathered his shirt, and cautiously slipped it over his head, exposing Bruce to the horrible, twisted pink scar where the acid had burned. Bits of his flesh had turned black. The scars where Tim had been cut and flayed and prodded at were fainter, but still there. Bruce's eyes darted fast over Tim's chest, taking in every blemish. There was a fire in Bruce's eyes that Tim had seen before, when they had first officially met. When he'd been hell bent on revenge for Jason's murder.

"I see," Bruce said as Tim twisted to let his back e seen. His whip scars were still very fleshy. They weren't so much scars as new skin. "Tim, how long did the Joker torture you for?"

Tim felt the tears slip from his lashes, and he looked down in shame. "A… a week… I think? I… never asked."

"A week."

"The Joker wanted me to stay with him," Tim said, the words tasting bitter and true in his mouth. "He…" Tim had trouble speaking. His tongue felt swollen. "He didn't want another Jason. He wanted something new." Tim stared at Bruce's neck, and he wondered. Tim's fingers twitched.

"What was it?" Bruce leaned closer as Tim's voice grew softer and softer. Tim found himself reaching. One handedly, he closed his fingers around Bruce's throat. The man didn't bat an eye.

Tim tilted his head. "If I strangled you," Tim whispered, staring into Bruce's dark eyes, "then would you disappear?"

"No," Bruce said. He opened his palms to Tim, and gave a shrug. "You're welcome to try."

Tim cracked a smile, and his fingers loosened. He kept them where they were, though. "All he wanted was what you had," Tim whispered. Speaking it out loud felt like a sin. "A protégé. A miniature him." Tim smiled dazedly. "I didn't mean to give in. I… I just… I thought… that if I just _survived_, then everything would be okay, but… I was so wrong…"

"Tim…" Bruce looked horrified. Tim had never seen that before. He felt the tears come faster, and his lips trembled as he spoke.

"I-I never… hurt anyone, I don't think, I… it's hard to remember, but he made me kill animals. Dissect them." Tim shrugged, but he was shaking too hard for it to seem nonchalant. He raised his eyes to Bruce, and they went wide. "Oh, that's a lie. I did hurt someone."

Bruce sucked in a breath. "Who?" he asked, his voice dark.

A small, sharp sob escaped Tim's mouth. It was half a laugh. "Jason," Tim gasped, clapping his hands over his eyes. "I-I-I be— I-I beat him with a crowbar, and I… I just… I kept… doing it, I was so angry with him. And then… he had a gun, and I… got it, I think?" Tim scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Oh, god, I was going to _kill_ him, I was… Why would he even want to come back after that?"

"Tim, that wasn't your fault." Bruce looked angry. Tim tried not to let it sting. After all, he wasn't really there. "What the Joker did to you… you are not accountable for anything you did while under his influence. You know that, don't you?"

Tim smiled up at Bruce. It was a tremulous smile, teary and filled with poisonous laughter. "I don't know…" Tim laughed, and it felt strangled in his throat. "I don't know who I am anymore."

Tim broke, the sobs coming too fast to choke down. He fell against Bruce's chest, breathing in his scent, and feeling his arms wrap tightly around him, brushing against the scars on his back. And Bruce only squeezed Tim tighter as he sobbed, shaking and gasping into his chest. It was around then that Tim realized that Bruce might not be a hallucination. That only made him weep a little more.

* * *

Jason had been very careful when hitchhiking across the country. He'd developed seven different identities, filled with their own special backstories. Peter Crock had been visiting his father in California, but ran away after a particularly nasty fight. Jason had enough scars that he could pull off the abused-child story. Some of the scars rang true enough. Gordon Gray was a musician, because when Jason had blurted the name Gordon Gray it sounded like a fucking stage name. He also told the truck driver who had picked him up that he was a child porn star, and that had gotten a few chuckles. Drake Logan had grown up in Las Angeles, and needed to get to Gotham quick because his sister is getting married, and it's been a really rocky relationship since their dad bailed, y'know? Wayne Morse didn't have much to say to the woman who had pulled him off the side of the road. He told her he'd gotten lost, and now he wasn't sure where he was. That got him into another state at least. Troy Richards talked amiably to a group of troubadours on a bus, and actually started beat boxing with them, which had been fun, he had to admit. Alfie West was a little too anxious to get home to make up a real story, so he just said that his mom forgot him at Six Flags. Damian Peters was kicked off a train, and promptly taken aboard another one. A family had offered to take him to Gotham.

Home tasted like smog. Bitter smog and dirt and grunge. He was exhausted beyond belief, and he found that the world was… so irritatingly inexhaustible. So much shit had happened, and yet…? The world went on. It had gone on after Jason had died. After he'd been resurrected, and while he'd been catatonic, and while he'd been recovering, and while Tim had been tortured, and it just went on and on and on. Normalcy was perfunctory.

Jason ended up walking most of the way. He didn't mind. He'd done a lot of walking, and his soles had gone worn. The longer it took, the more time he had to think. Was this really what he wanted? He could still run. He could flee, and pray no one found him. But truth be told, he wasn't sure if he could run anymore. He was so tired of running, and he just wanted closure. He wondered if he'd go insane if he didn't.

Gotham was just the same as it had been when he'd left. Dingy and dim, a world of lights and pollution. Jason hated it, but it felt so familiar… He was so sick of his memories, he just wanted to lay down and forget. Would that be easier? He couldn't really tell. He was so tired…

It had been about two weeks since Jason had left Tokyo. He'd gone in a hurry, hopping aboard a cargo plane and hiding amongst ropes and crates and boxes. _Back to living in boxes_, he'd thought. Jason longed for his bed, longed for his family, longed for solace and smiles and safety. He would be a fool to believe any of it. He knew what was waiting for him, and he knew it was not happiness.

He stopped for an hour to sit and watch the city move. No one really bothered him. He bought a cup of coffee, and he sipped at it tentatively, his mind whirring on overdrive. Was this truly what he wanted? He thought about Talia, and sadness crept over him. _What if they punished her for helping me_, Jason thought frantically. _What if they take Damian away from her?_ Jason wasn't sure how he felt about the little demon, but his feelings were far from hate. The boy did nothing but make Jason sad. After all, he was the essence of _what could be_, as Jason was the essence of _what went wrong_.

News was that the Reach had failed. Jason was relieved, but worried. Wasn't there a cost to this success? Saving the world was something the heroes did every day. But this? It seemed too… simple. There had to be a catch, right? Jason sighed, draining his coffee and tossing it into a bin. He was so tired of this bullshit.

The truth was, he was so scared of what he'd find when he went home. An empty house was his worst fear. _Tim in Arkham, Bruce in space, Dick wallowing on his own, and Alfred_… Jason had to force himself to push forward. It was the only thing he could do at this point. He felt like his entire world was crashing _down_ and _down_ and _**down**_. There were kites in the skies clipped and sailing away, light bulbs burning out, and with ever burst of darkness came a shuddering realization that Jason did not know if he could do this. He wasn't sure how to live.

The manor was as big and intimidating as it had been the first time he'd been forced to look upon it. Back then, it had been something he'd feared, and now it was just the same. The manor was his home, but it was not his place. The streets that he hated held a part of him, and he held a part of them. It made him angry and it made him hate a little more.

He walked through the gate, tugging at the drawstrings of his bag, and he took deep breaths. It would be okay, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? He wasn't really sure, and it scared him so badly he was shaking as he stepped up onto the stoop. His knuckles were white as he raised them to knock. _It's sad_, he found himself musing, struck into a frozen state. _Knocking on the door of your own home. It says a lot_. Sad and scared and shaky were good ways to describe him.

Jason knocked, and the sound split through his mind like a hammer strike.

For a few moments, Jason's heart beat so hard that his stomach lurched, and he took several steps back. His breathing was irregular, and he looked behind him, wondering hopelessly if he'd be able to make it back to the gate before Alfred opened the door. Panic floored him. He just didn't know if he could handle it.

The door opened, and Jason looked up, his eyes snapping wide. He could feel his face morph in horror, fear leaking from his pores and radiating into the air. His terror was palpable.

Alfred stood, his old eyes taking in Jason's appearance. Windswept hair cropped shorter, a face gaunt, but fuller than what it had been, a skinny frame of mismatched clothing bought at various places. A red hoodie from Tokyo, black patchy jeans from Las Angeles, beaten old converse bought from a yard sale in Central. Jason knew he looked like half a hobo, and he pretty much was one.

He found that he couldn't speak. Alfred's eyes had gone wide, his face transforming. Jason couldn't read it. He found himself stammering to get the words out, but he just couldn't.

"I…" Jason said, glancing away from Alfred's face. "Uh… yeah. I-I'm back, and… um…"

Jason had half expected the door to be slammed in his face. Instead, he squeaked pitifully, feeling the old butler pull him by the shoulders. His face hit Alfred's chest, and Jason almost pushed him away in shock and fear and confusion. He couldn't fathom what was happening, and blinked as he was hugged tightly. _This doesn't make any sense_, he thought numbly.

"Alfred," Jason said, his voice muffled.

Alfred quickly pulled back, flattening Jason's hair as he went. He looked as if he had just composed himself very quickly, and his calm smile was nothing but a mask. "My apologies, Master Jason," Alfred said softly. "I am just… very pleased to see you."

That felt like a slap in the face with cold water. "O-oh?" he asked. He looked down at his feet, shuffling them. "Oh. I… I'm happy to see you too. Really happy."

Alfred moved from the entrance, and Jason took that as an invitation to move inside. He did, and he felt strange. His skin was prickling, and he took a deep breath. Everything smelled just as he remembered. Faintly musty from the age, but warm and like home. Jason almost collapsed right there out of relief. But his panic came back quickly.

"Where…" Jason took a deep breath, and turned to face Alfred, who was watching him with heavily lidded eyes.

"Master Tim is in his bedroom," Alfred said. "Master Bruce is at the Watchtower, and Master Dick is… away."

Jason felt a chill run though him. He stared up at Alfred, his brow furrowing. "Away?" he repeated.

Alfred looked at Jason sadly. "Master Dick… hasn't been home. I'm afraid he's moved again."

"What?" Jason's eyes widened. "What happened? Bruce… did Bruce say something? He knows it's my fault, doesn't he?"

"It has nothing to do with that, sir," Alfred sighed. "Master Dick merely wants to be alone. Or I assume he does, as he hasn't contacted us."

"Prick," Jason spat. Alfred looked at him.

"Oh, you misunderstand," Alfred said. "There has been… a tragedy."

Jason stared at him, his fear suddenly becoming unbearable. "What kind of tragedy?" he hissed.

Alfred's old eyes were weary. "I'm afraid… oh, I'm sorry, sir, this isn't how to start out your return, but… Wally West has died."

That hit him like ice. His heart went cold, and then numb, and he felt as though he might need to cut it out before frostbite consumed him. "Wally." Jason's mouth felt dry.

"I know it isn't any consolation," Alfred said softly. "But Miss Artemis is alive."

Jason's eyes grew so wide they began to ache. "What?" he croaked, stumbling back. "_What_?" He clamped his hand over his mouth, his heart thundering against his ribs. _Oh, god, no, not to her, why, why, why?_ It wasn't fair. Why couldn't the dead just _stay _dead? He had a horrifying thought, imagining Artemis with hollow eyes, a gaunt face, no fire left in her to keep her going. "Oh, god, what…"

"Oh!" Alfred seemed to realize his mistake. "Sir, no, she was never dead."

Jason looked at Alfred, and he found himself whirling around on his heel. His body felt shaky. "I can't deal with this right now," he said, stomping up the stairs.

As he moved, he scrubbed at his face. He was so tired, but he had to talk to Tim. He had to see him, even though everything in his body was telling him to run the other way.

He stood outside Tim's door for a few minutes. He didn't really know what to do now. He was _home_. Wasn't that what he'd wanted? He was so tired. Life wasn't agreeing with him, and Jason would give anything not to face Tim. Anxiety plagued him, and he thought of Artemis. _She's not dead, she was never dead, why, why, why?_

Jason knocked quickly. The sound echoed in the empty hall, and he breathed, or tried to breathe rather, but he just couldn't. No one answered. Jason knocked again, this time a little more vigorously. Still, there was no answer. Jason stood, confused, and he looked around the hall. What the fuck? Really now?

He kicked the door, and he kicked it _hard_. It rattled at its hinges. "Yo!" he shouted, banging on the wood with his palm. "Open up, birdy!"

As he was pounding on the door, it flew open. Jason yelped, stumbling back before he accidentally punched the boy in the face.

Tim stared at him, his mouth agape, and his eyes big and blue and bleary. His face was sunken, and his eyes hollow, and his entire body seemed littler. But all in all, he looked significantly better than the last time they'd seen each other.

"Um," Jason said, his voice cracking a little. "Hi."

Tim's brow furrowed, his mouth still gaping. His eyes only seemed to get wide. "Hi," he said. His voice sounded soft and brittle and dead, like autumn grass.

Jason looked down. He had no idea how to speak. His tongue wasn't yielding to him, and he was just… scared. "Can… can I come in?"

Tim seemed to jolt a little. "Oh," he said. "Uh, yeah." He stepped aside, and Jason entered with squared shoulders. He had no idea what he was doing.

The room was messy. That threw Jason off. Everything was out of place, and there were papers strewn across the floor, pens and pencils and marks flung in various places. Tim had doodled on the walls in pencil, and wrote little notes, as if he'd been too afraid to get up to grab a piece of paper. Everything was in disarray.

"Um…"

"Sorry," Tim mumbled, brushing past Jason to try and gather up the papers. "I… I haven't cleaned up in a while."

"Yeah, I got that." Jason moved toward the desk, peering at the papers crumpled and uncrumpled and crumpled again. He saw various titles. _The Impulse Paradox, Time Machine Mechanics, Pocket Dimensions, The Shadowland, Speedforce_. Jason picked up the one that said, _Dear Steph_. "Did she turn out okay?"

"What?" Tim asked. He looked up, and he jumped to his feet. "No, don't touch those!"

Jason let Tim tear the paper from his fingers. "Stephanie Brown," Jason said. "Is she okay?"

Jason watched Tim go rigid at the mention of her name. His body was frozen, and he stared ahead for a few moments, before he gave a sharp shrug. "She…" His voice was tight. "She moved back in with her mom, um…" Tim straightened, and he closed his eyes. "She… lived here for a little bit, but… now she's gone."

"Gone?" Jason felt a rock drop into his stomach. "Gone where?"

"I don't know." Tim pressed his back to the wall, his shoulders shaking. "Her mom was assigned to a rehab somewhere else. Bruce won't tell me where."

"Wait, what?" Jason's eyes widened. "_Bruce_ won't tell you? What the fuck?"

Tim wrinkled his nose. "He doesn't trust Steph. Or, he doesn't trust me with Steph. To be honest, I don't really know. Jason, what are you doing here?"

Jason jumped. "What?" he blurted, startled. Tim watched him with his big blue eyes, and he never looked more like a child.

"Here," Tim said. "In my room. Talking to me." He looked away, his eyes darting sharply to the corner of the room. "I… I mean…" He visibly flinched away from the corner, and took a deep breath. "I'd… think you hated me."

Jason stared at him. "Jesus," he breathed, running his fingers through his hair. He felt laughter bubble within him, and he barked a laugh, clutching his head with one hand. "Holy shit!"

Tim stared at him, wild eyed and terrified. "What?" the boy squeaked. "What did I do?"

"_Nothing_!" Jason laughed, his shoulders shaking. "Oh my _god_."

"What?" Tim gasped, stumbling forward and grabbing Jason's shoulders. "Jason? H-hey, are you…?"

Jason couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so light. _Oh my god, we're both such idiots_. He laughed, his head dipping, and he rested his forehead against Tim's shoulder, feeling hysterical. He clapped Tim's arm, choking through his laughter. "I—" he gasped, giving Tim a sharp shove. He stumbled back, his mouth parting in confusion. "You fucking dweeb, oh my god, I can't believe you."

"What?" Tim actually looked hurt. "I'm sorry, I…"

"_No_." Jason swatted his shoulder. "Shit, don't be sorry! I…" Jason shook his head, his laughter bright. "I thought _you'd_ hate _me_, you fucking moron!"

"Why are you screaming?" Tim gasped, his body coiling into itself. "Please stop screaming."

"Sorry."

Tim looked down, and Jason contained his laughter. He looked at the desk, and he studied it for a few moments. He realized there was something off. "Hey, what happened to your lamp?" Jason asked, looking around the room. He felt warm. Light. Thoughts of Wally and Artemis and Talia and Damian and Dick and the man he'd killed and _everyone_ had left him.

Tim balked. "I broke it," Tim said quietly.

Jason's eyes widened. "Oh," he said. Jason plopped down at Tim's desk. "Um. So, what's all this crap?"

"Nothing." Tim shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "I can't really… sleep much, so I write down whatever is in my head."

"Oh," Jason repeated. "That's smart."

"Not really."

Jason shrugged. "Well, it's better than what I did. I just laid in bed and let myself be scared shitless."

That got Tim to smile a little. He stared at Jason, and he took a deep breath. "How…" he said, his voice thin. "How do I… get him out of my head?"

Jason didn't have to ask. He'd been… praying that somehow things could just go back to normal. He licked his lips, looking down at his hands. In all honesty, he hadn't been plagued by Joker dreams for… a while. Mostly because he'd had different trauma to fill in for it, but still.

"I…" Jason looked up at Tim, and he shook his head. "I mean… you should try and… not think about it."

"I try that," Tim said. "The only time he _really _goes away is when I'm with Steph or Dick, but they're both gone now."

Jason swore softly. "Okay, well…" Jason chewed on his lip. "Fuck it. I'm here, okay?"

Tim stared at him, and his eyes narrowed sharply. "You're not going to leave again?" he asked, his tone drenched with distrust.

"Um, no," Jason said, shifting in his seat. "Not unless you want me to." _Or if, you know, Bruce kicks me out_.

Tim looked down, and he said nothing. His back slid down the wall, and they sat in silence.

* * *

Tim knew why Stephanie was gone. And he hated Bruce because of it. It just wasn't _fair_. She hadn't done anything wrong, but she was being punished for it. And put under surveillance because of the fact she knew so much. Tim had tried hacking to find out where she was, exactly, but Bruce had been very careful. When Tim had confronted him, and told him that he needed Steph in order to remember who he was, Bruce told him that it wasn't forever, and that was all.

With Jason's return came some… issues. Tim could sense the unrest between him and Bruce, though initially Bruce had been very pleased to have Jason back. Tim knew that Jason was withholding information. A lot of information. Jason had outright refused in to tell them anything about his time with the Shadows.

"But," Tim blurted, "you could have really good information! Stuff we might need to know!"

Bruce had nodded in agreement, and Jason had merely shrugged. "That's not my problem," he said, turning away from them. "If you really want to know, you can call Talia. She'd be more than happy to tell you everything."

As Jason disappeared from the cave, Tim looked up at Bruce. "Are you going to call Talia?" he asked.

"No." Bruce turned his back to Tim, and Tim could only sigh.

Jason disappeared during the day at random. Tim didn't know why. In truth, Tim had known before he'd arrived that he'd escaped Ra's. Roy had told him, and only him. Tim hadn't told anyone else. He'd been too mad at Bruce, and it wasn't like Dick came around. Tim found himself angry at Dick too. _You promised not to leave me_. It was selfish, but Tim missed him too much to care.

"Hey," Jason hissed one night. He never knocked anymore, because he knew Tim was awake, and he knew Tim didn't care. "Guess what?"

"What?" Tim asked, his eyes flashing to the corner. The Joker's face was obscured, but he was still there.

"I got you a present."

Tim blinked, his pen pausing, though his mind still rattled off theories he could barely comprehend. It took him a few moments to register his words. "What?" he asked confusedly, twisting in his chair. Jason grinned, and held up a cardboard box. "Are you serious right now?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Come on, Timmy," Jason said, rattling the box. "I owe you big time, let's be real about this."

"I don't…" Tim bit his lip nervously. He sometimes wondered if Jason was being nice to him to make up for what had happened.

"Come on," Jason insisted, setting the box on the floor. "Come _on_, you little shit, get up."

Tim sighed, rising to his feet. Jason was a nice distraction, but he didn't make the bad things disappear. Tim was still drowning in his fears and insecurities. He missed Steph and Dick. _If they were here, I think I could do it_, Tim thought. _I could get rid of the Joker. I could be stronger_. Tim thought about Wally, and he was consumed with guilt.

"What is it?" Tim asked, bending down to pick up the box. Jason grabbed his arm.

"No, wait," he said, yanking the box away. "Close your eyes."

Tim gave him an incredulous look. Jason's eyes narrowed in return. "This is stupid," Tim sighed, closing his eyes.

"No, this is me trying to be a decent person." Jason gave a soft scoff. "Isn't that a joke?"

Tim sat down, his eyes still closed as he shrugged. "I don't think you're a bad person," Tim said. "You're a great person."

The sound of Jason shuffling around the room kept the silence from being unbearable. "No," he said. "I'm not."

"Yes you are!" Tim fought the urge to open his eyes. "If anyone's bad, it's me."

That got a laugh out of Jason, a sharp, bitter laugh. Tim jumped. "Please," Jason said quietly. "You've got your issues, birdy, I'll give it to you, but you've never been _bad_ and you never will be." Tim felt Jason sit down very close. "Open your eyes."

He did. He gasped, nearly toppling over, and he flung his arms back to catch himself. The room had gone dark, and sitting between them, casting a myriad of luminous dots across Tim's walls, was a revolving lamp. Tim stared around, his eyes following the constellations, and he could feel himself grinning, his eyes wide and amazed.

"Thank you," Tim said, his eyes flashing back to Jason's. "Thank you so much."

Jason merely shrugged. "I told you," he said, leaning back on his elbows and smiling lazily. "I owed you. I still owe you."

"No," Tim said urgently, "no you don't!"

"Yes, I do," Jason sighed. "What happened was my fault, and there's no denying it."

"You don't owe me anything," Tim said firmly. "You're not a bad person, Jay. Why can't you get that?"

Jason shot up straight, and the fake stars twinkled faintly against his face. "You think _you're_ bad," Jason spat. "_You_! Like, what the hell? Just because you've been fucked with doesn't mean you're bad."

Tim's mind felt cloudy. He stared at Jason, and the only sound in the room was the soft whirring of the lamp revolving around and around and around. The lights gathered and whirled, simple and radiant. They fell across Jason's angry face, illuminating the contours of his nose and mouth and eyes. Tim felt sick to his stomach.

"I thought about killing Bruce," Tim blurted. Jason blinked, looking startled. "I mean, well… I thought it was a hallucination. But it wasn't. And I honestly thought about just trying to choke him. I almost did. How does that not make me bad?"

Jason's eyes were cold and dead as he gazed at Tim. He pulled his knees to his chest and glanced away. "Because you didn't," he said softly. "If you really were bad? You'd have meant it when you thought about killing him. You'd have tried to kill him and mean it."

Tim shifted in discomfort. "But—"

"I killed someone," Jason said. Tim looked at him, and he felt cold fingertips slither down his spine. _No. He's lying. He didn't, he wouldn't_. "I threw a shuriken at him, and it ended up in his heart. I didn't mean it, so that makes it okay, right? That's what Talia said. And then she told me it gets easier." Jason smiled grimly. "Maybe she's right."

"Jason…" Tim said, trying not to sound as horrified as he felt.

"The world isn't separated into good people and bad people, Tim," Jason said, flopping onto his back. "If it was, it'd be a whole lot easier to live in."

Tim felt like his entire world had just been turned on its head. He found himself scooting closer to Jason, falling onto his back as well. They watched the faux stars, sleepiness creeping toward them. "Jason," Tim whispered. "How did it feel? To kill someone?"

Jason was so quiet, Tim thought he'd gone to sleep. He turned his head, and found Jason staring up at the ceiling, wide awake and shaking. Tim pressed his fingers gently to his shoulder.

"Awful," Jason said. "It feels awful."

* * *

"What is _wrong _with you?" Jason gasped, marching around Bruce in order to face him. He kept turning away, the bastard. "What the hell possessed you to send Stephanie away like that?"

Bruce sighed. "To you… yes, it seems harsh," Bruce said, looking down through his cowl. He'd only just gotten back from patrol. "But I do have my reasons. Tim isn't stable right now, Jason. He has a hard time differentiating reality and delirium. It's… for the best that she stays away from him."

"Are you saying," Jason said, his eyes narrowing, "that you think he'd hurt her? Do you know him at _all_?" But Tim's words rang inside Jason's head, soft and salient. _I thought about killing Bruce. I mean, well… I thought it was a hallucination. But it wasn't. And I honestly thought about just trying to choke him. I almost did. How does that not make me bad?_

Jason wanted to scream. Mostly at Bruce. It just wasn't fair. He'd finally come back, and now everything felt tainted again.

"I know Tim," Bruce sighed. He sat down at the monitors, pushing the cowl back. "It's Tim who doesn't know himself."

"So you sent the one of the only _two_ people right now who makes him feel like himself away." Jason slammed his palm on the desk, leaning close to Bruce. "Great job! Any ideas on how to lure the other one out of hiding?"

Bruce looked up at Jason, his dark eyes scarily cold. "Dick hasn't spoken to me," he said. "But he's spoken to you."

That had gone swimmingly. Jason had paid him a visit in Blüdhaven a week or so earlier to confront him over the… Artemis incident. Instead of talking to Artemis herself. Jason really just didn't want to see her. Or Kaldur. _They must think I'm so stupid_. Dick had been hunched at a desk, working steadily and not even noticing Jason's arrival.

"Yo," Jason had said. "Dickie-bird, hey. Whoo hoo. Anyone in there?"

Dick had looked up sharply, his blue eyes like sunken bruises in his head. They still sparkled with surprise and delight when they saw him, though. "Jason!" Dick had gasped, jumping to his feet. "Whoa, wait, how'd you get in here?"

"Uh," Jason had said. "The door?"

"Oh." Dick had looked around frantically. "Oh, right, uh… sorry. I've been really distracted."

"Yeah," Jason had sneered. "Too busy to see your mentally deteriorating brother, apparently."

Dick looked away. "I…" He'd taken a deep breath. "I want to see Tim, I do. Oh, god, I wish I could talk to him right now. But… I… if I talk to him, and I say something, and that… triggers him?" Dick had looked horrified. "I don't think I'll hold it together, Jay, I don't know how I'm holding it together now, I just… I'm just living, and I'm not even sure how at this point."

Jason had never heard Dick sound so vulnerable. So human. _Even the golden child falls_. "And me?" Jason had tried not to sound too angry. "What kept you from seeing me? You obviously knew I was back."

Dick had smiled apologetically. "You don't leave the house much," Dick had admitted. "I didn't know how to catch you without… seeing Tim or Bruce in the process."

"Why are you avoiding Bruce?"

Dick had laughed uneasily. "Uh," he'd said. "Differing opinions on how to handle Tim's condition."

"Steph."

"I'm working on it," Dick had promised. "I mean, I know where she is, and I've talked to her. She has no idea that her mother switched rehabs because of Bruce, and I'm praying it stays that way. She wanted to know why Tim isn't answering her calls though."

"What'd you say?"

Dick had laughed. "That his phone got taken away from him. And his laptop. That he's basically a hermit."

"Which," Jason had said, "is true."

"Yes," Dick had said. "But at least he has wifi."

"Comfy prison," Jason had observed. "But still a prison."

"Bruce doesn't understand because he didn't live with Tim and Steph," Dick had said. "He doesn't know how they were, how Tim is when he's around her. Has he had anymore episodes?"

"Not since Bruce got back."

"I should get Barbara to come over," Dick had mused aloud. "She's way better at keeping him calm than I am. She does it just by being near him."

"Well god bless Babs," Jason had said, rolling his eyes. "But let's get real. What the fuck was up with you _faking Artemis's death_?"

Dick had winced, and he slumped back into his chair, running his fingers through his hair. "Have you… talked to Artemis?" Dick had asked.

"Do I look like someone who wants to have a breakdown right now?" Jason had shaken his head. "God, I still can't even fucking believe it. Tigress. Do you know there was like, a split second where I wanted to kill her?"

Dick had looked strangely calm. "She told me about how hostile you were." He'd smiled. "She was really touched by how loyal you are, especially around so many enemies."

That had gotten Jason to flush. "She fucking _died_," Jason spat. "I wasn't going to pass her killer and _curtsy_."

Dick had smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Kaldur wants to talk to you," he'd said. "He feels really bad about everything."

"I'm pissed at him too."

Dick had shaken his head again. "Give him a chance. There was a purpose for this, you get that, right?"

"The only thing I've got," Jason had said, "is some new things to add to my list of traumatic experiences."

"Fair enough." Dick had watched Jason with a curious gaze. "Who was the boy?"

The words chilled Jason's bones, even thinking of it now. "What?" Jason had blurted. "What do you mean?"

"The boy," Dick had said, spinning his chair gently. "Both Kaldur and Artemis said there was a boy with you when they saw you. A little boy."

"Just a kid," Jason had said, trying to school his features. "Just a demon child, actually. He followed me around everywhere."

Dick had smiled, looking interested. "Well I'm glad you made one friend, at least," he'd said. "What was his name?"

Jason had found himself panicking. "Why?"

Dick had looked confused. "Because… I want to know…?" Dick had grown very suspicious very fast. "Unless you don't want me to know."

"He's just a kid."

The silence had been almost unbearable. "Talia's kid," Dick had said.

Jason's eyes had gone wide. "How did you…?" He'd frozen at Dick's coy smile, and he'd smacked his forehead. "Fuck! You mother—!"

"When did Talia have a kid," Dick had wondered aloud. "With who, oh my god, this is weird. I mean, I always thought she was going to be hung on Bruce for… ever…" The look on Jason's face had made Dick trail off. "Oh. No. No way, tell me you're joking."

"Dick," Jason had said. "Don't tell Bruce."

Dick had hung his head back in response, groaning loudly and obnoxiously. "I can't even sense the aster right now, it's so far away."

"Dick, promise me you won't tell Bruce."

"Why the hell shouldn't I tell him he has a kid?" Dick had looked abruptly angry. "Why haven't _you_ told him?"

"Because Talia saved my life!" Jason was still holding strong to that fact. Talia had saved him. And he owed her for that. "I mean, she can be kind of psycho sometimes, but she really loves her kid, okay? I'm not going to be responsible for taking him away from her."

"You can't," Dick had said slowly, "possibly think that you can hide this from Bruce."

"I can," Jason had said. "And I will. So will you."

Dick had looked away. "I… Jay… I mean, I'm angry at him right now, but… this isn't something that I can just ignore."

"Then… wait." Jason had sounded desperate. "Please, don't tell him now. Just… wait. Please."

And he had. Miraculously.

Jason looked at Bruce, and he shrugged. "Yeah, I talked to him." Jason scowled at Bruce, and he shook his head. "You do realize that the only person who understands your fucked up reasoning is _you_, don't you?"

"Jason," Bruce said. "Go to bed. I'm not going to discuss this with you."

"You just _did_, though," Jason said.

"Jason." Bruce's eyes bore into his, and Jason found himself whirling around, stomping toward the lift.

"Everyone in this family is crazy!" Jason cried, flinging his hands into the air. "I give up!"

Bruce, as expected, ignored him.

The house was quiet. That was normal. What was abnormal, was the haunted feeling it took. Usually the manor was warm. Hospitable. Everything now seemed gray and shadowy. It was an eerie calm, and Jason found himself moving fast. He got to Tim's room, and found that the door was ajar. He blinked, and nudged it open.

"Tim?" he called, poking his head into the room. The floor was littered with papers and pens, and the star lamp was on, laying on its side as if it had been smacked over. Jason moved toward it, looking toward the bed. But Tim wasn't there. "Well, shit." Jason turned the lamp off, setting it on the desk, and turned on the light.

The walls came alive. They stretched out, big gaping grins covering half of one, and _HA HA!_ was scrawled over and over and over again in colorful marker. Bloody hand prints glided across the walls, as if someone had ran around, smearing it like paint. The world was a makeshift horror film, and it had the desired effect. Jason stumbled backwards, his mouth falling open, and he looked around wildly. The world was spinning, and he was in the middle of its whirling dance of jesters and mad clowns.

He bolted from the room, fleeing so fast that his head spun. "Tim!" Jason screamed, stumbling down the hall. There was a trail of blood. He hadn't noticed it before. _What did he cut himself on? Oh god, oh god_… "Tim! Birdy, come on, this isn't okay! _Tim_!"

The blood trail stopped before the bathroom. Jason stood breathing heavily, and his whole body shook with terror. He didn't know what to expect. "Tim?" Jason called, his voice thin and raspy. He could hear the water running. "Hey, I'm coming in, okay?" There was no answer.

The bathroom was dark. Jason flicked on the light, and saw that the blood had been contained to just a few small drops on the floor. He sighed, pressing his hand to the wall as he edged closer to the shower. There was no steam rising. Only the rush of water signaled that there was anyone else in the room. In fact, now that Jason looked, the showerhead wasn't going. It was the bath faucet.

"Tim?" Jason whispered. He very slowly pushed the shower door aside.

Tim was curled up in the water, his hands dipped into the bath. He was half clothed, and his chest was… Jason stared at it, the faint lines running all across his skin, and the grotesque looking scar that crawled up his neck. There was marker too, little _ha ha's _scrawled all across his arms, along the raised white scars that lined them. Tear tracks were visible on his cheeks, and his lip trembled as Jason reached out to touch him.

"Tim," Jason said, looking down at the red water. "Hey… um… what happened?"

Jason could feel Tim shaking against his fingertips. He shook his head, and bit his lip, and he buried his face in his hands. Jason's eyes widened as he saw the state of them, torn have to shreds. What had Tim _done_? They were bright red, blood still seeping through the exposed cuts.

"Hey," Jason gasped as Tim's shaking turned into thrashing. "Hey, shit, no! It's okay, stop it, please, Timmy, come on, stop!"

But Tim didn't. He only fought harder, completely silent, and the red water lapped at the sides of the tub. Jason groaned, and he found himself kicking off his shoes, clambering gracelessly into the tub beside Tim. The shock of the ice cold water jolted him into complete lucidity.

"Stop shaking," Jason hissed, grabbing Tim by the shoulders. "Stop it!"

Tim stared up at him, eyes wide and teary. And he obeyed. He slumped against Jason, and he began to sob, his voice muffled on Jason's shoulder. Jason could make out a few words. "I didn't—!" and some begging, "Please, please, please, don't—!" and some fearful gasps, "It was him, oh god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—!"

Jason found himself nodding. He hugged Tim to his chest, and he nodded against his hair, and he prayed. He knew there wasn't anything to pray to, but shit, he wished there was. Tim didn't deserve this. He deserved happiness and peace. Not this.

After around twenty minutes the water had gone lukewarm, and Jason was still holding Tim tight. He just found that he couldn't let him go, not until he knew he wasn't going to hurt himself again.

"Jay?" Tim asked, his voice a wisp.

Jason looked down at him. "Yeah?"

"I thought it was the Joker," he said. "But it was me."

_There's a monster in all of us_, Jason wanted to say. Instead, he said, "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're okay now, right?"

Tim nodded vacantly. "My hands…"

"Will heal," Jason said. The water had long since drained, and they were now sitting in an empty, blood stained tub. "Come on, let me get that shit off your arms."

Tim smiled weakly as Jason reached up and grabbed the soap dish. As he began his work at scrubbing Tim's arms clean of the mar of marker, he clung to him with trembling fingers. The letters washed off his skin easily enough, but the scars stubbornly remained.

"Jay," Tim whispered. "Am I going to be like this forever?"

Jason paused his scrubbing, only to give him a smile. "No way," he whispered back. "You're gonna be fine. Just keep your chin up, kay?"

Tim stared at him, his eyes filled with wonder. And he nodded.

Jason knew what it felt like to be weighted down, at the lowest point anyone could possible go. When all feelings just escape, and numbness takes over, and everything is harsh and unforgiving, and it only gets worse as the world unfurls. But the good thing about hitting the bottom? There was only one way left to go.

_Up_ and _up_ and _**up**_.

* * *

_um oh my god_

_Guys, I think I need a round of applause for getting this chapter up tonight. I'm actually leaving to go to Italy this... morning-ish? like i'll be gone for two weeks. i didn't think i'd be able to finish this in time, but holy shit, i tried, and i did it, oh my god, i can't believe i did it?_

_I got done basically everything I wanted to get done. Though it may not be quite as coherent as i'd hoped, give me a little break, i haven't looked over or edited any of this._

_This is also the final chapter._

_Don't be too sad though. ='] There will be an epilogue. When I come back._

_So please, please, please leave me some reviews! I want to come back and two weeks and be able to reread this and have feedback to keep me at it. I'll talk to you guys for the last time after the epilogue. Wow. i really just can't believe i did it._


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